LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Class 


A  TREASURY 
OF  IRISH  POETRY 


A  TREASURY 


OF 


IRISH    POETRY 


IN  THE  ENGLISH  TONGUE 


EDITED  BY 

STOPFORD   A.   BROOKE 

AND 

T.   W.    ROLLEST.ON 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 


All  rights  reserved 


GENERAL 


COPYRIGHT,  1900, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  December,  1900.     Reprinted 
March,  1905. 


J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &,  Smith  Co, 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


SIR   CHARLES   GAVAN   DUFFY 

AMONG  WHOSE   MANY   SERVICES   TO   IRELAND  WAS  THE 

PUBLICATION   OF  THE   FIRST  WORTHY  COLLECTION 

OF   IRISH    NATIONAL   POETRY,   THE   EDITORS 

WITH   DEEP   RESPECT 

DEDICATE   THIS   VOLUME 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  position  which  Ireland  holds  in  the  literature  of  the  world 
is  beginning  to  be  understood  at  last.  In  the  nineteenth 
century,  Ireland,  slowly  relieved  from  the  oppression  which 
forbade  her  very  speech  and  denied  education  to  her  native 
intelligence,  made  known  to  scholars  and  the  friends  of  litera- 
ture the  imaginative  work  she  had  done  in  the  past.  England, 
who  for  many  years  encouraged  the  cry  —  Can  any  good  come 
out  of  Ireland  ?  —  has  shown  little  interest  in  that  work,  and  the 
class  which  in  Ireland  calls  itself  cultivated  has  shown  even 
less  interest  than  England.  A  few  Celtic  scholars,  many  of 
whom  are  quite  unknown  to  fame ;  and  a  few  '  rebellious 
persons,'  who  having  no  chance  with  the  sword  grasped  the 
pen  —  began  this  labour  of  love.  They  awakened  little  excite- 
ment in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  but  they  did  stir  up  Conti- 
nental scholars ;  and  that  which  an  Irish  University  on  the 
whole  neglected,  was  done  by  German  and  French  professors 
and  students  with  system,  accuracy,  and  enthusiasm.  Moreover, 
the  modern  school  of  critical  historians  in  England  and  the 
Continent  soon  recognised  and  proclaimed  the  originating  and 
inspiring  work  by  which  Ireland,  in  ancient  days,  had  awakened 
England  and  Europe  into  intellectual,  artistic,  and  religious  life. 
The  people  who  from  our  little  island  did  so  much  for  the 
civilisation  of  the  nations  wrote  and  spoke  at  home  the  Irish 


INTRODUCTION 


tongue,  and  all  their  poetical  work  up  to  the  beginning  of  this 
century  is  in  that  tongue.  But  England  naturally  wished  to 
get  rid  of  the  Irish  tongue  and  was  naturally  careless  of  its 
literature.  Ireland  herself,  and  that  was  a  pity,  did  not  care 
enough  about  her  own  tongue  to  preserve  it  as  a  vehicle  for 
literature ;  and  finally  her  poets  and  thinkers  were  steadily 
driven  to  ase  the  English  language.  Much  has  been  lost  by 
this  destruction  of  a  literary  language,  but  much  has  also  been 
gained.  If  Irish  can  again  be  used  as  a  vehicle  for  literature, 
so  much  the  better.  A  few  are  now  making  that  endeavour, 
and  all  intelligent  persons  will  wish  them  good  luck  and 
success.  It  is  no  disadvantage  to  a  man  or  a  country  to  be 
bilingual,  and  the  teaching  and  use  of  the  Irish  tongue  will 
throw  light  upon  the  ancient  form  of  it,  enable  scholars  to 
understand  it  better,  and  increase  our  knowledge  of  its 
treasures  Moreover,  there  are  many  realms  of  imaginative 
feeling  in  Ireland  which  can  only  be  justly  put  into  poetic 
form  in  the  tongue  of  the  country  itself.  No  other  vehicle  can 
express  Jhem  so  well. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  gain  to  Irishmen  of  speaking 
and  writing  in  English  is  very  great.  It  enables  them  to 
put  their  national  aspirations,  and  the  thoughts  and  passions 
which  are  best  expressed  in  poetry,  into  a  language  which  is 
rapidly  becoming  universal.  It  enables  them  to  tell  the  world 
of  literature  of  the  ancient  myths,  legends,  and  stories  of 
Ireland,  and  to  represent  them,  in  a  modern  dress,  by  means  of 
a  language  which  is  read  and  understood  by  millions  of  folk  in 
every  part  of  the  world.  These  considerations  lie  at  the  root 
of  the  matter,  and  if  Irish  writers  do  not  deviate  into  an  imita- 
tion of  English  literature,  but  cling  close  to  the  spirit  of  their 
native  land,  they  do  well  for  their  country  when  they  use  the 
English  tongue. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  use  of  English  by  national  poets  and  versifiers  may 
be  said  to  have  begun  towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century;  it  has  continued  ever  since,  and  this  book  is  a 
history  and  Anthology  of  that  poetry.  We  have  divided  it  into 
six  books,  representing  on  the  whole  distinct  phases,  but  these 
divisions  must  not  be  too  sharply  separated.  They  overlap 
one  another,  and  there  will  sometimes  arise,  in  the  midst  of  a 
new  phase,  a  poet  who  will  revert  to  the  types  of  the  past  or 
make  a  forecast  into  the  future.  The  short  introductions  to 
these  books  discuss  the  characteristics  and  the  historical 
sequence  of  the  general  movement  of  Irish  poetry  during  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  arrangement  of  the  selections  in 
these  six  books  illustrates  that  movement. 

When  the  book  was  first  projected,  I  wished  to  include 
nothing  in  it  which  did  not  reach  a  relatively  high  standard  of 
excellence.  But  I  soon  discovered  —  and  this  was  strongly 
urged  by  my  brother  Editor  —  that  the  book  on  those  lines 
would  not  at  all  represent  the  growth  or  the  history  of  Irish 
poetry  in  the  English  language.  Moreover,  our  original  pur- 
pose had  already  been  carried  out  by  Mr.  Yeats  in  his  too 
brief  Anthology,  and  it  was  advisable  that  we  should  adopt  a 
different  aim.  It  must  also  be  said,  with  some  sorrow,  that 
the  Irish  poetry  of  the  first  sixty  years  of  this  century  would 
not  reach,  except  in  a  very  few  examples,  the  requirements 
of  a  high  standard  of  excellence.  Art  is  pleased  with  the 
ballads,  war  songs,  political  and  humorous  poetry,  and  with 
the  songs  of  love  and  of  peasant  life,  but  she  does  not  admit 
them  into  her  inner  shrine.  It  is  only  quite  lately  that  modern 
Irish  poetry  can  claim  to  be  fine  art.  But  as  it  has  now,  in 
what  is  called  the  Celtic  Revival,  reached  that  point,  the  history 
of  the  poetry  that  preceded  it,  and  examples  from  it,  are  of 
value  and  of  interest,  at  least  to  Irishmen.  We  laid  aside  then 


INTRODUCTION 


our  original  intention,  and  our  book  is  a  systematic  record  of 
the  best  poems  we  can  cull  from  the  writers  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  It  is  also  a  history  of  the  development  of  a  special 
national  art,  and  as  such  has  a  real  place  in  the  history  of 
literature.  The  modern  as  well  as  the  earlier  forms  of  that 
art  stand  completely  apart  from  the  English  poetry  of  their 
time.  Moreover  the  book  illustrates  very  vividly  the  history 
of  Ireland  and  of  her  movement  towards  a  national  existence. 

We  do  not  claim  for  the  poetry  a  lofty  place.  That  would 
be  unwise  and  untrue.  But  I  have  given  reasons  in  the  second 
part  of  this  Introduction  why  we  claim  for  it  not  only  the 
affection  and  reverence  of  Irishmen,  but  a  distinct  place  in  the 
temple  of  Poetry,  and  a  bland  and  sympathetic  interest  from 
the  students,  the  critics  and  the  lovers  of  literature.  They 
will  find  here  a  school  of  poetry  in  the  making,  a  child  growing 
into  a  man ;  and  a  slight  sketch  of  its  progress  may  not  be  out 
of  place  in  this  Introduction. 

Goldsmith  and  other  Irishmen  had  written  poems  in  the 
English  tongue  before  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
they  were  English  in  matter  and  manner,  and  belonged  to  the 
English  tradition.  The  national  poetry  of  Ireland,  written  in 
English,  began  towards  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  with 
the  ballads  and  songs  made  by  the  peasants,  by  the  hedge-school- 
masters and  their  scholars,  and  by  the  street  beggars.  Nearly 
all  those  distinctive  marks  of  the  Irish  poetry  of  the  first  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century  on  which  I  shall  hereafter  dwell 
make  in  these  a  first  and  rude  appearance.  Even  before  1798 
William  Drennan,  a  cultivated  gentleman,  beat  the  big  patriotic 
drum  in  English  verse ;  and  the  United  Irish  movement, 
together  with  the  influence  of  Grattan  and  his  Parliament, 
strengthened  that  conception  of  an  Irish  nation  which  was  now 


INTRODUCTION  xi 


embodied  by  the  ballad- makers,  and  sung  in  drawing-rooms  by 
fine  ladies,  and  by  ragged  minstrels  from  street  to  street  of  the 
towns.  Wrath  and  sorrow  alike  filled  these  ballads,  and  pride 
in  Ireland.  *  When  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  tide  ' 
was  the  first  of  a  multitude  of  poems  with  the  same  motive ; 
and  it  was  sung  all  over  Ireland.  It  was  followed  by  the 
'Wearin'  of  the  Green,'  a  song  which  has  glided  into  a 
national  anthem,  and  by  the  'Shan  Van  Vocht,'  which  cele- 
brated the  sailing  of  the  French  to  Ireland  to  help  the  revolt 
of  Lord  Edward  FitzGerald.  Thomas  Moore  struck  the  same 
national  note,  and  forced  it  into  prominence  in  English 
society. 

Along  with  this  patriotic  poetry,  and  always  accompanying 
it  in  Ireland,  the  elegiac  pipe  was  heard,  and  Moore  in  his 
best  songs  played  upon  it  with  a  grace  and  tenderness  in  com- 
parison with  which  his  other  poetry  fades  from  our  hearing. 
Callanan  and  Gerald  Griffin  continued  this  strain,  but  it  was 
partly  accompanied  and  partly  succeeded,  in  an  eminently 
Irish  revolt  from  sadness,  by  songs  like  those  of  Lever,  Lover, 
and  P'ather  Prout,  in  which  the  wit,  fun,  and  wildness  of  the 
Irish  nature  were  displayed. 

Before  this  amusing  phase  was  exhausted,  and  in  a  grave 
reaction  from  the  elements  of  the  stage  Irishman  contained  in 
it,  the  poets  of  the  Nation  newspaper,  indignant  that  the  light 
gaiety  of  the  Irish  character  (though  they  justly  appreciated 
the  courage  and  charm  of  this  gaiety  in  the  days  of  misery) 
should  alone  represent  their  people,  and  moved  by  the  spirit 
which  soon  passed  into  action  when  Europe  rose  for  liberty 
and  justice  in  1848,  again  set  forth  the  national  aspirations  of 
Ireland.  They  called  on  Protestant  and  Catholic  alike,  on  the 
Orange  and  the  Green,  to  unite  for  the  deliverance  and  nation- 
ality of  Ireland.  Gavan  Duffy,  who  founded  and  edited  the 


xii  INTRODUCTION 


Nation,  Thomas  Davis  and  their  comrades,  united  literature  to 
their  politics  and  civic  morality  to  literature.  Indeed,  the 
Nation  poets  are  sometimes  too  ethical  for  poetry.  Their 
work  inspired,  almost  recreated,  Ireland ;  and  it  still  continues 
to  inspire  Irishmen  all  over  the  world  with  its  nationalising 
spirit.  Its  poetry  could  not  naturally  be  of  a  high  class,  but 
it  may  be  said  to  have  made  the  poetic  literature  of  Ireland. 
The  editors  of  this  newspaper  received  and  published  poems 
sent  to  them  by  peasants  and  struggling  folk,  hitherto  voice- 
less ;  and  extended  in  this  way  a  love  of  literature,  a  know- 
ledge of  its  ideals,  and  an  opportunity  to  make  it,  over  the 
country.  Those  Irish  also  who  had  fled  to  foreign  lands  felt 
the  impulse  given  by  this  journal,  and  poetry  awoke  among  the 
emigrants.  It  became  impossible,  after  the  Songs  of  the 
Nation  were  collected  and  published,  for  England  or  Europe 
or  America  to  either  forget  or  ignore  the  passion  for  nationality 
in  the  hearts  of  the  Irish. 

The  Famine  years  in  which  the  Death-keen  of  a  whole 
people  was  listened  to  by  the  indignation  and  pity  of  the 
world,  produced  its  own  terrible  poetry.  A  vast  emigration 
succeeded  the  Famine.  A  third  of  the  population  found  it 
impossible  to  live  in  Ireland ;  and  then  a  poetry  of  exile  and 
of  passionate-  remembrance  of  their  land  took  form  among 
Irish  poets,  and  melted  into  sorrow  men  whose  hearts  had 
been  hot  with  wrath.  It  was  no  wonder,  after  this  dreadful 
suffering,  that  political  poetry  lost  the  temperance  of  the  Songs 
of  the  Nation  and  took  a  ferocious  turn  in  men  like  McCarroll ; 
but  of  that  kind  of  fierce  poetry  there  is  far  less  in  Ireland 
than  we  might  expert.- 

Of  the  men  who  succeeded l  the  poets  of  the  Nation,  Man- 

1  I  say  '  succeeded,'  but  only  in  the  sense  of  succession  of  one  phase  of 
poetry  to  another.  In  reality,  the  beginning  of  the  Gaelic  movement  was 
contemporaneous  with  the  rise  of  the  political  poetry  of  the  Nation. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 


gan,  whose  genius  was  as  wayward  and  as  unequal  as  his  life, 
was  the  chief.  He  too,  beyond  his  interest  in  foreign  litera- 
ture, was  a  political  poet.  But  he  was  so  with  a  difference,  a 
difference  which  brought  a  new  and  vitalising  element  not  only 
into  Irish  song,  but  into  Ireland's  struggle  to  be  a  nation. 
Acquainted  with  the  past  history  of  Irish  chiefs  and  their  wars, 
and  also  with  Gaelic  tradition,  he  derived  from  this  wild  and 
romantic  source  a  thrill  of  new  enthusiasm,  and  began  that 
return  to  Gael-dom  for  inspiration  which  is  so  constant  an 
element  in  the  Celtic  revival  of  our  own  day.  He  brought 
again  into  prominence,  and  with  astonishing  force,  the  histori- 
cal ballad,  and  gave  it  a  new  life.  His  impulse  descended  to 
Ferguson,  and  together  they  originated  a  new  Celtic  movement. 

In  the  midst  of  this  political  poetry  of  the  present  and  this 
fresh  poetry  of  the  past,  some  tender  little  poems,  always 
appearing  in  the  turmoil  and  pain  of  Ireland,  celebrate  with 
quiet  and  graceful  feeling  the  idylls  of  peasant  life.  This  ele- 
ment also  has  passed  into  our  modern  poetry,  and  fills  it  with 
the  stories  of  the  lowly  life  and  love  of  Ireland. 

The  Fenian  movement  which,  hopeless  of  justice  from  con- 
stitutional means,  called  Ireland  to  arms,  did  not  produce 
much  poetry ;  and  what  it  produced  was  feebler,  as  a  whole, 
than  the  Songs  of  the  Nation,  but  some  lyrics  included  in  our 
book  have  a  passionate  intensity  which  I  look  for  in  vain 
among  the  Nation  poets.  After  '67,  patriotic  rage  seldom 
recurs  as  a  separate  motive  for  poetry.  There  were  a  few 
Land  League  poets,  but  they  were  even  less  vigorous  than  the 
Fenians.  Political  indignation  lasts  in  modern  poetry  only  as 
part  of  the  aspiration  to  nationality.  Its  fury  is  now  no  longer 
heard.  It  flashes  for  a  moment  out  of  death  or  failure  in  the 
poems  of  Fanny  Parnell,  but  she  is  the  last  writer  who  was 
passionately  inspired  by  politics. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 


The  modern  movement,  justly  occupied  more  with  poetry 
for  its  own  sake  than  with  poetry  in  aggression  against  Eng- 
land, has  passed  into  a  quieter  land,  with  wider  horizons.  Its 
indwellers  have  larger  aims  and  aspirations  than  the  poets 
who  preceded  them.  What  is  universal  in  poetry  is  greater  to 
them  than  any  particular;  what  belongs  to  human  nature  all 
over  the  world  is  more  to  them  than  what  belongs  to  any  special 
nation.  Nevertheless,  they  remain,  as  they  ought  to  remain, 
distinctively  Irish.  But  they  pass  beyond  Ireland  also.  They 
desire  to  do  work  which  may  be  united  with  the  great  and 
beautiful  Song  of  the  whole  world.  While  they  love  Ireland 
dearly  and  fill  their  work  with  the  spirit  of  Ireland,  they  also 
wish  to  be  inhabitants  of  that  high  Land  of  Art,  where  there  is 
neither  English  nor  Irish,  French  nor  German,  but  the  spirit  of 
loveliness  alone. 

This  new  movement  took  two  lines,  which  ran  parallel  to 
one  another,  like  two  lines  of  railway.  But  now  and  again,  as 
lines  of  railway  meet  and  intersect  at  stations,  these  two  mingled 
their  motives,  their  subjects,  and  their  manner.  But,  on  the 
whole,  they  ran  without  touching;  and  one  followed  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  other  the  Irish  tradition.  The  poets  who  kept 
the  first  line,  and  who  are  placed  in  Book  VI.,  have  been 
so  deeply  influenced  by  Wordsworth,  Keats,  and  in  part  by 
Shelley,  that  even  when  they  write  on  Irish  subjects  the  airs 
of  England  breathe  and  the  waters  of  England  ripple  in  their 
poetry.  It  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the  subtlety,  tenderness, 
and  love  of  nature  of  these  poets,  but  their  place  is  apart  in  an 
Anthology  of  Irish  poetry.  They  have  not  kept,  along  with 
their  devotion  to  their  art,  the  spirit  of  their  native  land.  They 
are  descended  from  the  English  poets  ;  and  if  they  were  to  read 
out  their  poems  on  Knocknarea,  Queen  Meave,  and  with  her 
the  Fairy  Race  of  Ireland,  would  drive  them  from  her  presence, 


INTRODUCTION  xv 


gently,  for  they  are  bards,  but  inevitably,  and  transport  them 
on  the  viewless  winds  to  England. 

The  other  line  on  which  Irish  verse  ran  was  backward  to 
the  recovery  of  the  old  Celtic  stories  and  their  modernising 
in  poetry,  and  forward  to  the  creation  of  a  new  form  of  the 
Celtic  spirit.  The  poets  who  did  and  are  doing  this  work,  while 
they  have  studied  and  honoured  the  great  masters  of  song, 
and,  as  they  write  in  English,  the  English  masters,  have  yet 
endeavoured  to  secure  and  retain  in  their  poetry  not  only  the 
national  and  spiritual  elements  of  the  character  of  the  Irish 
people,  but  also  that  appealing  emotion  which  lives  like  a  soul  in 
the  natural  scenery  of  Ireland,  and  makes  it,  at  least  for  Irishmen, 
transcend  all  other  scenery  by  depth  and  range  of  sentiment. 

I  have  said  that  Mangan  began  the  return  to  Celtic  tradition, 
but  as  it  were  by  chance,  with  no  deliberate  hand.  Even  before 
him  Callanan  and  Walsh  had  fallen  back,  out  of  their  stormy 
poetry,  on  the  silent  record  of  Irish  story,  and  had  put  into 
English  verse  some  Gaelic  poems.  The  translations  Miss 
Brooke  had  made  in  the  last  century  were  indeed  the  first 
of  all,  but  they  were  as  English  in  manner  as  Goldsmith's 
verses.  Mangan  was  the  true  precursor  of  the  revival  of  the 
passion  and  thought  of  ancient  and  mediaeval  Ireland.  But 
the  leader  of  the  choir  was  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson,  whose  '  Lays 
of  the  Western  Gael,'  1867,  established  the  Celtic  movement. 
In  his  own  time  few  cared  to  drink  of  the  forgotten  fountains 
he  struck  from  the  rock  where  they  were  hidden,  nor  did  he 
gain  the  interest  or  gratitude  of  any  wide  society,  but  the 
waters  he  delivered  have  swelled  into  fertilising  streams.  His 
restoration  of  the  sagas  of  Ireland  has  made  a  new  realm  for 
romantic  poetry,  and  given  it  fresh  impulse  and  fresh  subjects. 
He  has  done  this  not  only  for  Ireland,  but  for  the  literary 
world.  English,  French,  Germans,  Americans  have  begun  to 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 


enter  into  and  enjoy  that  enchanted  land.  Even  Tennyson, 
English  of  the  English,  could  not  resist  its  attraction.  More- 
over, its  Cycle  of  Tales  has  proved  its  right  to  be  one  of  the 
great  Subject-matters  of  poetry  by  its  adaptability.  The  later 
Irish  poets  who  have  modernised  its  tales  or  episodes  have 
been  able  to  treat  it  with  the  same  freedom  and  individuality 
as  the  romantic  poets  did  the  legend  of  Arthur.  A  great  Cycle 
of  Tales  fits  itself  into  the  individual  temper  of  each  poet,  and 
calls  on  him,  as  it  were  imperiously,  to  make  new  matter  out 
of  it.  It  desires  no  slavish  following  of  its  ancient  lines ;  it 
begs  for  fresh  creation.  Ferguson,  Sigerson,  Aubrey  de  Vere, 
Larminie,  Todhunter,  Russell,  Nora  Hopper,  and  William 
Yeats  have  invented  new  representations  of  the  old  Celtic 
stories,  and  the  work  of  each  of  these  poets  stands  apart. 

Another  phase  of  the  Celtic  movement,  illustrated  in  this 
book,  tends  to  accurate  translations,  preserving  the  original 
metres,  of  old  Irish  poetry  into  English  verse.  This  has  been 
done  with  great  enthusiasm  and  success  by  Dr.  Hyde  and  Dr. 
Sigerson.  It  has  its  interest :  it  adds  to  our  knowledge  ;  but 
the  original  poetry  is  curiously  unequal,  and  the  scientific 
metres  no  more  an  excellence  in  Irish  poetry  than  they  are 
in  Icelandic.  They  limit  both  passion  and  freedom. 

One  would  have  thought  that  in  this  Celtic  revival,  faery 
poetry  would  have  occupied  a  large  place.  In  Ireland  the 
fairies  are  still  alive,  and  faery-land  is  still  real.  But  they  scarcely 
live  in  the  modern  poets  of  Ireland.  William  Allingham's 
fairies  are  of  English  origin.  One  Irish  poet  actually  takes 
refuge  with  Oberon  and  Titania,  who,  though  they  may  trace 
their  far-off  origin  to  Ireland,  are  creatures  wholly  different 
from  the  Irish  fairies,  in  whose  atmosphere  they  could  not 
breathe.  Oberon  and  Titania  have  never  crossed  the  Channel. 
The  Irish  fairies,  who  are  descended  from  the  great  Nature 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 


Gods  and  the  under-deities  of  flood  and  fell  and  lake  and  angry 
sea,  are  of  a  double  nature,  kindly  and  terrible  ;  and  in  their  fall 
from  their  high  estate  the  terrible  has,  more  than  the  kindly, 
become  their  abiding  temper.  They  do  not  therefore  come 
easily  into  subjects  for  modern  verse,  except  when  the  Irish 
poet  is  attacked  by  pessimism.  Fortunately  that  disease  is  not 
common  in  Ireland,  and  those  who  do  suffer  from  it  at  times  in 
Ireland  soon  break  out  into  laughter  at  themselves.  Indeed,  the 
Fairy  Race  of  Ireland  themselves  are  not  at  all  pessimistic.  They 
live  their  own  life ;  are  very  ancient  in  temper ;  are  quite  un- 
affected by  science,  art,  and  literature  ;  carry  off  beautiful  human 
girls  and  children,  as  their  women  carried  off  lovers  of  old  from 
the  race  of  men  ;  avenge  a  slight  or  any  want  of  reverence  with 
great  promptitude  and  a  native  sense  of  justice ;  dance,  and  play 
music  of  their  own  making ;  and  even  mingle  a  rare  gamesome- 
ness  with  their  dignity  and  severity.  It  is  a  pity  nothing  has 
yet  in  poetry  been  written  about  them  with  full  insight  and 
knowledge.  It  is  true  their  acquaintance  or  friendship  is  not 
easily  made,  and  the  greater  personages  among  them  are  very 
haughty  and  reticent.  But  the  lesser  folk  are  more  approach- 
able, and  are  delightful  company.  There  is  but  one  poet  in 
Ireland  who  has  been  admitted  to  this  retired  and  difficult 
society,  who  knows  a  little  of  its  terrible,  mysterious,  and 
spiritual  charm. 

That  charm  has  partly  to  do  with  a  new  phase  of  the 
Celtic  movement  in  poetry —  the  last  which  has  come  into  being, 
and  perhaps  the  most  fruitful.  For  certain  young  poets,  either 
looking  deeper  into  that  mysterious  world,  or  driven  by  a 
spirit  in  themselves,  have  seen  beneath  the  myths  and  legends 
of  Ireland,  and  in  the  hidden  regions  where  the  Nature  Gods 
of  the  Irish  still  dwell  afar,  the  images  and  symbols  of  those 
remoter  states  of  the  human  soul,  which  only  live  on  the  border- 


INTRODUCTION 


land  between  the  worlds  of  matter  and  spirit,  and  share  in  the 
nature  of  both.  And  out  of  this  has  arisen  a  mystic  school 
of  modern  poets,  who,  if  they  do  not  isolate  themselves  too 
much  in  that,  will  awaken  a  new  power  in  Irish  literature.  But 
to  dwell  only  in  that  land,  and  never  to  emerge  into  the  open 
country  where  the  great  simplicities  of  human  nature  quietly 
abide,  will  in  the  end  weaken  that  type  of  poetry,  and  may 
bring  it  to  nothing.  I  am  glad  that  some  of  the  mystical  poets, 
having  seen  that  truth,  have  written  poems,  as  Blake  did,  full 
of  a  natural  humanity. 

There  has  also  been  recovered,  with  a  new  note 
attached  to  it,  and  with  more  of  fine  art  than  before,  the 
poetry  of  Irish  humour  and  of  its  companion,  pathos;  and 
poems,  like  those  of  Mr.  Graves,  are  as  gracious  and  gay  as 
they  are  national.  Correlative  with  these,  and  passing  into 
them,  are  the  idylls  of  the  poor.  Peasant  life  in  Ireland  is 
radically  different  from  peasant  life  in  England ;  it  has  its  own 
Celtic  qualities  and  of  the  best ;  and  it  holds  a  multitude  of 
tender,  gay,  sweet,  courageous,  and  natural  subjects  for  Irish 
poets  who  love  their  countrymen  and  enjoy  their  temper.  Many 
such  poems  will  be  found  in  this  book,  and  I  hope  that  many 
more  will  be  written.  There  are  plenty  of  remote  and  romantic 
subjects  in  Irish  life  and  legend,  of  wars,  adventures,  raidings, 
sieges,  of  tragic  loves  and  sorrows^of  spells  and  enchantments, 
of  the  gods  and  mortals  in  love  and  battle  with  one  another, 
of  a  hundred  passionate  and  mystic  things,  and  this  com- 
mercial modern  world  will  welcome  them,  if  they  are  not 
moralised  ;  but  the  better  food  and  pleasanter  delights  of  poetry 
will  be  found  in  the  daily  life  of  men  and  women  spiritualised 
by  natural  passion  into  that  eternal  world  of  Love  where  the 
unseen  things  are  greater  than  the  seen.  It  is  in  that  return 
to  natural  love  that  poetry  when  athirst  drinks  fresh  dew,  and 


INTRODUCTION-  xix 


rises  into  a  new  life  ;  and  in  it  will  be  found  the  true  mysticism, 
the  vital  spirituality,  the  passion,  and  that  noble  sensuousness 
which,  when  it  is  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  spiritual, 
becomes,  and  especially  in  contact  with  nature,  itself  a  part  of 
spirit. 

This  slight  history  of  Irish  poetry  during  a  century  is 
necessarily  inadequate.  An  introduction  is  limited :  many 
things  must  be  omitted,  many  points  left  undeveloped,  and 
criticism  of  living  poets  must  be  left  alone.  These  omissions 
are  filled  up  by  the  introductions  and  the  criticisms  in  this 
book.  I  have  dwelt  on  tendencies  rather  than  on  men.  It 
remains  to  say  something  of  the  reason  for  publishing  a  separate 
Anthology  of  Irish  poetry,  and  of  the  distinctive  elements  of 
that  poetry.  That  there  are  distinctive  elements  in  it  is  the 
main  reason  for  publishing  its  Anthology. 

The  first  of  these  is  its  nationality.  That,  right  or  wrong,  is 
the  deepest  thing  in  Ireland,  and  it  is  a  multitudinous  absurdity 
for  England  to  try  to  ignore  it.  Even  if  it  were  wrong,  as  it  is 
not,  all  laws  or  any  government  which  do  not  take  it  into  the 
highest  consideration  are  bound  to  fail  dismally  in  Ireland. 
This  stands  to  reason,  but  reason  rarely  influences  Cabinets  or 
lawyers.  It  stands  also  to  reason  that  if  Irish  nationality  be 
so  deep  a  thing,  the  Irish  literature  which  ignores  it  is  bound 
to  be  inferior  in  life  and  originality  to  that  which  is  inspired  by 
it.  And  such  is  the  case.  The  Irish  poetry  which  follows  the 
English  tradition  too  often  wears  an  imitative  look,  languishes 
into  subtleties,  or  dreams  into  commonplace.  Were  it  possible 
that  Irish  literature  should  be  anglicised,  there  would  soon  be  no 
literature  worth  the  name  in  Ireland.  It  has  not  been  anglicised. 
No  one  can  be  deaf  to  the  national  note  in  the  greater  part 
of  the  poetry  here  published.  It  is  everywhere  distinctive, 


xx  INTRODUCTION 


from  the  'Wearin'  of  the  Green'  to  the  ' Wanderings  of  Oisin'  ; 
and  there  are  so  many  forms  of  it  that  they  alone  give  interest 
to  this  book. 

English  poetry  is  national  enough,  but  it  is  a  national 
poetry  of  pride  (not  ignoble  pride),  of  victory  and  of  joy. 
Irish  national  poetry  has  its  own  pride,  not  ignoble  either,  but 
different  from  English  pride.  It  is  the  pride  of  the  will 
unconquered  by  trouble,  of  courage  to  endure  ill-fate  to  the 
end,  of  the  illimitable  hope  for  the  future  which  is  a  child  of 
the  imaginative  powers.  Nor  is  her  national  poetry  of  victory 
and  joy,  but  of  defeat  and  sorrow  and  hope.  The  poems  here 
are  in  all  points  different  from  the  national  poems  of  England. 
So  sorrowful  are  they  that  English  seems  no  fitting  vehicle  for 
their  emotions.  . 

When  the  English  embody  their  nation,  she  sits  by  the  sea- 
shore, crowned  ;  with  the  triple  fork  of  Poseidon  to  rule  the  waves ; 
helmeted,  and  her  shield  by  her  side  like  Athena ;  Queen  of 
her  own  isle,  and  in  her  mind,  Queen  of  all  the  seas.  She  is  a 
poetic  figure,  but  belongs  more  to  the  pride  of  life  than  the 
passion  of  poetry.  But  when  Irish  poets  imagined  Ireland,  she 
sits,  an  uncrowned  queen,  on  the  wild  rocks  of  the  Atlantic 
coast,  looking  out  to  the  west,  and  the  sorrow  of  a  thousand 
years  makes  dark  her  ever  youthful  eyes.  Her  hair,  wet  with 
the  dews,  is  her  helmet,  and  her  robe  she  has  herself  woven  from 
the  green  of  her  fields  and  the  purple  of  her  hills.  This  Virgin 
Lady  of  Ireland,  in  the  passion  of  her  martyrdom,  was  the 
subject,  after  her  conquest  by  England,  of  a  crowd  of  Gaelic 
poems,  and  is  the  subject  still  of  English  poems  by  Irish  poets. 
And  many  names  are  hers,  names  under  which  she  was  hidden 
from  the  English  oppressors.  Dark  Rosaleen,  Silk  of  the  Kine, 
Innisfail,  the  Little  Black  Rose,  the  Rose  of  the  World,  and  others 
too  long  to  number ;  but  all  of  them  belong  to  immortal  beauty. 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 


One  hardly  wishes,  for  the  sake  of  Art,  that  this  Lady  should 
lose  all  the  sorrow  by  which  her  loveliness  is  veiled,  but  yet,  joy 
would  make  her  lovelier ;  and  the  national  symbol  of  Ireland 
may  yet  have  that  enchanting  light  in  her  eyes.  If  Irish  poetry 
could  so  image  her  now,  it  would  be  well.  That  which  is  con- 
ceived with  imaginative  truth  often  fulfils  itself  in  reality. 

Another  distinctive  mark  of  this  poetry  is  its  religion.  Ire- 
land's religion  is  linked  closely  to  her  nationality,  and  has  been 
as  much  oppressed.  The  note  of  the  poetry  is  nearly  always 
Catholic,  and  Catholic  with  the  pathos,  the  patience,  and  the 
passion  of  persecution  added  to  its  religious  fervour.  English 
poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  poetry  of  many  forms  of  religion ; 
men  of  all  churches  and  sects  can  find  their  spiritual  sympa- 
thies represented  in  it.  But  it  has  no  specialised,  no  isolated 
religious  note,  because  persecution  such  as  existed  in  Ireland 
did  not  deepen  its  music  into  a  cry. 

The  religious  poetry  of  England  (there  are  only  a  few  excep- 
tions, like  Southwell)  is  comfortable  and  at  peace.  It  plays  its 
pleasant,  quaint,  or  solemn  flute  in  quiet  vicarages,  or  Bishops' 
palaces,  or  in  the  classic  gardens  of  the  Universities.  Even  the 
Nonconformist  verse  breathes  the  settled  consolations  of  a 
warless  land.  But  the  Irish  religious  poetry  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century  was  written  in  prisons,  under  sentence 
of  exile  or  death,  on  the  wild  moor  and  in  the  mountain  cave. 
Its  writers  lived  under  the  ban  of  Government,  crushed  by 
abominable  laws  ;  and  the  mercy  given  to  the  wolf  was  the  only 
mercy  given  to  men  whose  crime  was  the  love  of  their  own 
religion.  Their  religious  poetry  gained  from  that  experience 
a  passionate  love  for  the  Catholic  Church,  and  well  the 
Church  deserved  it.  And  we  have  in  this  book  only  too  few  of 
the  poems  which  image  and  record  this  love,  expressed  with  an 
intensity  and  devotion  which,  though  it  has  but  little  art,  has 


INTRODUCTION 


much  of  nature.  Things  have  changed  since  then ;  persecution 
has  ceased,  and  the  present  Catholic  poetry  is  written  by  com- 
fortable persons.  Yet  the  old  savour  clings  to,  and  the  ancient 
passion  rings  in,  the  modern  poems.  The  memories  of  martyr- 
dom are  as  -powerful  in  song  as  its  realities. 

The  matter  and  the  manner  have  both  changed.  The 
sacred  legends  of  Irish  saints  are  now  told,  and  the  glories 
of  the  ancient  Church  of  Ireland.  The  mystic  elements,  so 
deep  in  Catholicism,  are  selected  for  the  music  of  verse; 
and  their  intense  spirituality,  white  and  rose-red  with  the 
heavenly  flames  of  wisdom  and  love,  is  a  vital  part  of  the 
mysticism  which  is  one  of  the  powers  of  the  Celtic  revival. 

Nor  was  the  Church  of  Ireland  left  of  qld,  nor  is  she  now 
left,  without  her  imagined  personality.  As  the  Lady  of  Ireland 
was  created  by  the  poets,  so  was  the  Lady  of  the  Church.  She 
sits  on  the  shore  of  Irish  Romance,  hand  in  hand  with  her  who 
personifies  Ireland  as  a  nation,  and  two  more  pathetic  figures  — 
in  their  indomitable  resistance  to  oppression,  in  their  sorrow 
and  their  hope,  in'  their  claim  to  the  love  of  their  people 
because  of  their  own  undying  love,  in  their  eternal  youth  to 
which  no  oppression  has  given  one  stain  of  age  —  do  not  exist 
in  the  world  of  literature.  They  are  clothed  with  the  beauty  of 
their  land,  and  the  martyrdom  of  their  people  is  their  crown  of 
light.  A  thousand  poems  are  hidden  as  yet  in  this  con- 
ception. 

Another  distinctive  mark  of  this  poetry  is  what  England  calls 
Rebellion.  Rebellion,  even  when  its  motive  is  only  pride  or 
the  support  of  an  immoral  cause,  much  more  when  it  is  waged 
by  sword  or  pen  against  legalised  oppression  and  iniquitous  laws, 
is  always  a  poetic  motive.  It  is  the  weak  against  the  strong, 
independence  against  tutelage,  the  love  of  one's  own  land  in 
her  hour  of  sorrow  and  danger.  And  all  these  motives  are 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 


vivid  in  Irish  poetry.  It  is  a  poor  country  that  can  make  no 
songs  in  a  struggle  for  freedom  ;  it  is  not  worth  its  freedom. 

Then,  when  the  fierce  songs  of  rebellious  war  are  still,  and 
the  rebels,  defeated,  suffer  the  penalties  of  the  victor,  songs  of 
pity  and  wrath  awake  together,  and  these  are  even  more  poetic 
than  marching  and  battle  songs.  And  further,  when  the 
struggle  of  the  spirit  goes  on,  though  the  bodily  powers  are 
enslaved,  and  the  soul  of  the  people  will  not  yield,  but  still  in 
silence  breathes  revolt  —  the  poetry  of  rebellion  takes  to  itself 
moral  sanctions,  and  then,  moral  passion  for  justice  is  mingled 
in  that  poetry  with  the  finer  passions  of  the  spirit. 

Nor  does  the  matter  end  here.  It  is  pitiful,  but  it  is  one 
of  the  curses  that  are  bred  by  injustice,  that  among  the 
injured  people  Revenge  then  claims  to  be  Justice,  and  the 
law,  being  identified  with  injustice  by  the  people,  is  despised 
and  scorned.  Sympathy  with  the  legal  criminal  then  arises  in 
song.  The  oppressed  peasant  who  illegally  rights  his  own 
wrong  is  counted  a  martyr ;  the  outlaw  and  the  prisoner  are 
made  into  knights  of  romance.  Unjust  law  produces  these 
revolts  against  it,  and  where  they  are,  the  law  is  in  fault,  not 
the  people.  In  a  well-governed  country,  except  among  the 
degraded  classes,  they  are  not  found.  In  Ireland,  they  were 
found  among  men  of  high  intelligence,  of  gentle  manners,  of 
cultivated  affections,  of  high  and  noble  aims,  of  deep  religious 
fervour,  and  of  poetic  imagination.  Many  of  these  rose  to 
high  offices  in  the  State  in  other  lands  than  Ireland,  and  some 
were  tender  and  graceful  poets.  It  is  worth  while  to  read  the 
idyllic  poems  of  Charles  Kickham,  the  Fenian,  and  to  ask 
if  one  who  felt  thus  was  worthy  of  penal  servitude.  The  fact 
is  that  the  greater  number  of  Irishmen  were  proud  to  take  the 
hand  of  the  '  treason-felons,'  and  thought  their  imprisonment 
their  crown  of  honour.  That  could  not  have  occurred  in 


xxi  v  INTR  OD  UCTION 


England;  and  the  reason  was,  not  that  these  Irishmen  were 
bad,  but  that  England  was  tolerably  well-governed  and  Ireland 
intolerably  ill-governed.  Well,  in  this  long  rebellion  of  body 
and  soul  the  poetry  of  rebellion  grew  up,  and  it  is  a  distinctive 
note  in  Irish  poetry.  There  is  not  a  trace  of  this  kind  of 
poetry  in  English  verse,  but  England  created  it  in  Ireland. 

In  the  realm  of  Art  in  which  I  write,  I  am  glad  to  have 
poetry  of  this  kind  in  the  English  language.  Whether  it  be 
rebellious  or  not  does  not  matter  to  Art.  The  only  questions 
Art  asks  are :  '  Is  it  well  done  ?  was  it  worth  the  doing  ? ' 
and  the  readers  of  this  book  may  answer  the  questions  for 
themselves.  In  the  early  Irish  poetry  rebellion,  with  all 
its  '  motives,'  flames  out  incessantly.  There  is  little  good  work 
in  it,  but  it  is  original,  and  its  very  rudeness  attracts  like 
early  sculpture.  It  has  a  daring,  lilting,  fine,  and  savage  swing, 
and  sets,  with  great  joy,  the  Saxon  and  the  Celt  in  battle 
array.  It  has  an  inspiration  which  breathes  of  the  people, 
and  it  calls  for  slaughter,  revenge,  and  ruin  with  an  energy 
Art  will  not  disdain.  But  pitiless  poetry  of  this  kind  seldom 
reaches  a  high  level.  Since  the  days  of  the  Hebrew  prophets, 
who  do  possess  the  pitiless  poetry  in  its  highest  form — for  their 
fierce  religion  uplifted  into  strength  the  natural  weakness  of 
vengeance  —  I  do  not  know  any  fine  poetry  which  calls  for 
merciless  slaughter  and  revenge. 

The  best  rebel  poetry  of  Ireland  is  not  found  among 
such  songs,  but  is  found  in  those  which  are  based  on  pity 
for  the  imprisoned  rebel,  sorrow  for  the  exile,  and  sympathy 
with  the  outlaw.  There  is  no  class  of  poetry  in  England 
that  celebrates  the  first  or  the  second  of  these  motives. 
There  is  in  Scotland,  and  the  Jacobite  songs  have  the  same 
air  of  romance  as  the  Irish  songs  of  those  who  were  hunted, 
like  Prince  Charlie,  from  cave  to  cave,  and  who  died  for 


INTRODUCTION 


XXV 


the  cause.  They  are  numerous  in  the  Irish  records,  and 
though  few  are  of  fine  poetic  quality,  yet  their  circumstances 
enhance  them.  As  to  sympathy  with  the  outlaw,  we  have 
poetry  of  that  kind  in  English  literature,  but  we  must  go  back, 
in  order  to  find  it,  for  several  centuries.  The  songs  which 
concreted  themselves,  year  after  year,  round  the  names  of 
Robin  Hood  and  his  wild-wood  followers  bear,  in  their 
sympathy  with  the  outlaw,  some  analogy  to  the  Irish  poems 
with  the  same  subject.  But  there  is  a  difference.  The 
English  ballads  are  happy,  the  forest  life  is  enjoyed,  the 
outlaws  get  the  better  of  the  law,  and  they  are  received  into 
royal  favour  at  the  end.  The  Irish  songs  are  drenched  in 
sorrow,  the  life  of  the  outlaw  is  wretched,  the  law  chases  him 
like  a  fox,  and  when  he  is  caught,  he  is  slaughtered  without 
mercy.  We  have,  for  the  most  part,  left  those  days  behind  us, 
and  no  rebellious  poetry,  save  a  few  scattered  songs,  now 
appears.  But  in  the  realm  of  Art,  in  whose  quiet  meadows 
we  now  read  poems  of  this  class,  § we  may  be  glad  to  have 
them  in  the  English  tongue. 

The  poetry  of  Misery  also  arose,  a  wild  and  melancholy 
cry.  Here  and  there  a  song  of  misery — the  misery  of  a  class, 
like  the  'Song  of  the  Shirt' — is  found  in  England  ;  but  this  Irish 
poetry  was  for  the  misery  of  a  whole  country,  for  the  misery  of 
millions.  The  sword  had  passed  over  Ireland,  and  torture  was 
added  to  the  work  of  the  sword.  Then  famine  came,  a  famine 
that  concentrated  into  itself  and  doubled  and  trebled  the 
misery  of  former  famines,  a  famine  that  awakened  horror  in 
the  whole  of  the  civilised  world.  Men,  women,  and  children 
died  by  thousands  of  starvation.  They  fell  dead  in  the  streets  of 
the  towns  and  on  the  moors  and  mountains,  and  their  bodies 
were  given  for  meat  to  the  fowls  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of 
the  field.  On  the  top  of  that,  pestilence  arrived,  and  those 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 


whom  famine  had  spared  plague  destroyed.  England  sub- 
scribed, when  the  mischief  was  done,  a  huge  sum  for  Ireland's 
relief,  but  the  administration  of  it  was  marked  by  that  absolute 
want  of  common  sense  which  till  quite  lately  has  always 
characterised  the  government  of  Ireland  by  England.  The 
food  given  was  totally  unfit  for  creatures  wasted  with  famine 
and  fever  ;  and  tj*e  starving  peasants,  weak  as  new-born  children, 
had  often  to  walk  miles  to  the  centres  of  distribution.  There 
was  plenty  of  good  food  in  Ireland,  but  the  poor  could  not 
buy  it.  It  was  a  famine  of  poverty,  not  of  want  of  food.  More 
cattle,  it  is  said,  were  exported  to  England  that  year  from  Ireland 
than  in  any  previous  year.  The  misery  of  exile  followed  on 
the  pestilence.  The  number  of  those  who,  unable  to  find  any 
means  of  life  in  Ireland,  left  the  country,  carrying  with  them 
hatred  of  England,  runs  into  millions.  Such  a  history  is  un- 
exampled in  Europe  during  the  last  hundred  years.  Indeed, 
there  is  no  indictment  of  past  English  rule  in  Ireland,  even 
when  made  by  those  who  hate  England  most,  so  terrible  as  the 
silent  indictment  of  the  miseries  by  which  Ireland  was  deci- 
mated. They  could  not  have  occurred  in  a  decently  governed 
country. 

Well,  the  misery  had  its  poetry  —  a  kind  of  poetry  unknown 
before  in  literature  written  in  the  English  tongue,  and  though, 
as  usual,  its  poetic  excellence  is  not  high,  it  has  a  passionate, 
strange  note,  an  astonished  horror  and  dismay,  a  wild  wail  of 
utterance,  which  Art,  now  that  time  has  mellowed  the  memories 
of  the  pain,  accepts  with  gratitude,  and  would  not  willingly  let 
die.  Ireland  has  added  to  English  literature  this  poetry  of  the 
Sword,  the  Famine,  and  the  Pestilence.  England  could  not 
produce  it,  for  centuries  have  passed  away  since  she  was 
devastated  from  end  to  end  by  these  dreadful  sisters.  Nor 
has  England  any  of  the  poetry  of  exile — a  pathetic  and  fruitful 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 


motive.  Its  songs  are  among  the  best  that  the  lyric  poets  of 
Ireland  have  produced.  They  are  simple,  natural,  direct,  and 
rapid.  They  seldom  err,  as  so  many  Irish  poems  err,  by  over- 
length,  that  is,  by  the  poet's  incapacity  to  select  the  suggestive 
and  cast  away  the  superfluous.  And  they  also  have  at  their 
root  that  poetic  image  of  Ireland,  as  a  Lady  of  Sorrow,  whose 
tragic  fate  has  deepened  for  her  the  passionate  love  of  her 
people.  Many  of  these  songs  are  written  in  prison,  in  convict 
ships,  in  the  far  lands  into  which  the  youth  of  Ireland  fled  to 
gain  bread  to  eat  and  raiment  to  put  on,  and  they  breathe  the 
hopeless  desire  to  see  again  the  hills  and  skies  of  Ireland. 
Others,  however  banished,  might  return,  and  hope  might  be 
in  their  songs,  but  the  Irish  exile  had  no  hope.  And  many  of 
these  songs  are  of  visits  to  a  native  land  in  dreams,  and  have 
the  spiritual  note  of  dreams.  This  then  is  another  distinctive- 
ness  in  Irish  poetry,  and  even  to  the  present  day  this  motive 
is  continued.  But  the  hopelessness  of  return,  the  woe  of  the 
exile  have  departed.  There  is  nothing  now  to  prevent  a  man 
returning  to  Ireland,  and  political  exile,  we  may  hope,  has 
ceased  to  be.  But  the  memory  of  what  has  been  still  lives 
in  Art,  and  is  used  by  Art. 

Another  class  of  poems  are  only  distinctive  from  the  dis- 
tinctive character  of  the  Irish  peasant.  The  idylls  of  the  poor, 
the  loves  and  sorrows  of  the  poor,  belong  to  all  countries,  and 
are  excellent  subjects  for  poetry,  when  they  are  'naturally  felt. 
Any  distinctiveness  the  Irish  poems  of  this  kind  possess, 
many  of  which  are  contained  in  this  book,  arises  from  a  special 
doubleness  in  the  Irish  character,  which  indeed  exists  in  other 
peoples,  but  is  nowhere,  I  think,  so  clear  in  its  divisions,  and  so 
extreme  in  its  outward  forms,  as  in  Ireland.  The  peasant  meets 
overwhelming  trouble  with  the  courage  and  the  endurance 
of  a  fatalism  which  is  only  modified  by  his  profound  religion. 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 


He  dies  in  silence  and  submission,  but  as  long  as  there  is  a 
shadow  of  hope  that  fate  will  lift  her  hand,  the  uncomplaining 
courage  with  which  he  stems  misfortune,  the  steady  affection 
with  which  he  defends  those  he  loves  against  it,  is  as  intelligent 
and  of  as  high  a  morality  as  it  is  simple  and  unconscious. 
The  peasant  idylls  of  sorrow  and  trouble  met  with  courage  and 
love,  and  then  with  simple  fatalism,  have  their  own  peculiar 
touch  —  a  touch  whose  note  is  deepened  by  the  underlying 
thought  of  the  vast  misfortune  of  their  country.  All  personal 
trouble  is  only  an  incident  in  Ireland  of  the  vaster  trouble  of 
the  whole  land — an  element  in  poetry  which  cannot  belong  to 
English  poetry.  Along  with  this  are  the  poems  which  repre- 
sent a  contrasted  feature  in  the  Irish  character.  The  moment 
the  weight  of  trouble  is  removed  —  or  if  in  the  midst  of  the 
worst  trouble  a  sudden  impulse  of  joy  or  love  should  come, 
or  of  physical  excitement  or  of  intellectual  humour  —  a  sudden 
reaction  sets  in ;  the  elastic  heart  forgets  for  the  time  its 
pain ;  the  acuteness  of  the  trouble  ministers  to  the  acuteness 
of  the  gaiety,  and  a  wild,  gay,  witty,  sometimes  turbulent  joy 
leaps  into  life,  during  which  the  world  is  filled  with  laughter  and 
brightness  and  satisfied  affection.  This  is  the  source  of  the  witty 
and  delightful  songs  which,  even  in  the  darkness  of  famine  and 
pestilence,  emerged  in  Irish  literature,  and  which  are  apart 
from  all  other  songs  in  the  English  language.  They  celebrate 
the  ideal  pleasure  of  fanciful  intoxication,  the  mutual  games 
and  fun  of  two  sweethearts,  the  joys  of  fighting,  the  rapture  of 
making  a  fool  of  a  man  and  telling  him  of  it,  and  even  the  wild 
and  wicked  daring  of  the  ' •  Night  before  Larry  was  Stretched.' 
Nowhere  in  English,  since  the  days  of  '  Golias,'  can  such  songs 
be  found,  and  I  dare  say  the  English  are  glad  that  they  are 
impossible.  But  Art,  in  its  bold  young  moods,  may  not  be 
sorry  to  possess  them. 


INTRODUCTION-  xxix 


I  have  already  described  how,  when  the  worst  stress  of 
these  woes  was  over,  the  Irish  poets  ceased  to  express  them- 
selves in  political  poetry,  but  nevertheless — save  in  those  poets 
who  followed  the  English  tradition  —  consecrated  their  verse 
towards  the  support  of  a  vigorous  and  vital  nationality  :  first,  by 
the  representation  in  a  modern  dress  of  the  Irish  myths  and  sagas  ; 
and  secondly,  by  the  representation  of  the  spiritual  elements 
of  the  modern  world  from  an  Irish  standpoint,  and  in  an  Irish 
spirit.  The  subject  makes  the  first  distinctively  Irish,  but 
recommends  itself  to  the  use  of  poets  and  story-tellers  in  all 
nations  that  love  literature.  When  art  and  criticism  have  cleared 
the  Celtic  stories  from  their  early  coarseness  and  rudeness  and 
their  later  extravagance  of  diction  and  ornament,  they  will  be 
a  treasure-house  of  subjects  for  those  who  love  the  past,  or  for 
those  who  love  to  modernise  the  past.  But  those  who  work 
at  them  in  these  ways  in  Ireland  will  have  to  possess  or  to 
sympathise  with  the  Celtic  spirit,  must  understand  and  feel 
its  distinctiveness.  The  material,  when  modernised,  seems  to 
demand  that  condition,  at  least  from  Irishmen.  Men  of  other 
countries  may  use  the  stories  as  they  please,  as  the  Normans 
French,  and  Germans  used  the  Tales  of  Arthur.  But  the  Irish 
poets  must  embody  their  ancient  story  in  verse  that  breathes 
the  spirit  of  Ireland,  or  fall  below  their  true  vocation.  They 
may  fill  it  with  modern  motives,  symbolise  and  spiritualise  its 
tales ;  they  may  change  its  robes ;  they  may  animate  it  with 
the  passions  and  thoughts  of  our  own  time,  and  express  it 
with  the  fine  and  careful  delicacy  of  poetic  art.  But  the  living 
and  distinctive  soul  in  it  will  be  born  in  Ireland.  Of  the  fulfil- 
ment of  this  no  better  or  shorter  example  can  be  given  than 
Mr.  Yeats'  poem  of  the  '  Hosting  of  the  Sidhe.' 

The  other  tendency  of  Irish  poetry  is  towards  a  more 
spiritual  view  of  the  world  than  now  prevails  in  fine  literature. 


INTRODUCTION 


In  this,  however,  it  does  not  stand  alone.  Such  a  reaction 
from  mere  sensuousness  or  materialism  or  from  the  common- 
places of  natural  description  and  love,  has  visited  French 
poetry,  and  the  wave  of  it  has  reached  England.  In  France 
both  the  mystic  and  religious  elements  of  this  spiritual  move- 
ment are  represented  in  combination ;  and  there  is  one  class 
of  Irish  poets  who  have  added  to  their  religious  work  not  only 
the  mysticism  which,  as  I  have  said,  lies  so  deep  in  the 
Catholic  Church,  but  also  a  lively  leaven  of  Neo-Platonism, 
with  a  modern  Celtic  addition  of  their  own.  The  result  of 
this  admixture  is  a  curious,  difficult,  symbolic,  and  interesting 
type  of  poetry,  charged  with  motives  of  serene  but  somewhat 
austere  beauty.  And  the  austerity  in  the  beauty  is  not  the 
least  charm  in  the  poetry.  We  can  claim  for  this  Catholic  and 
mystic  poetry,  of  which  Mr.  Lionel  Johnson  is  the  chief  singer, 
a  real  distinctiveness.  With  the  exception  of  Francis  Thomp- 
son, himself  a  Catholic,  English  poetry  is  without  it  at  present. 
It  used  to  exist  in  England,  in  work  like  that  of  Henry  Vaughan 
and  other  Platonists,  but  even  there  the  difference  between  the 
present  Irish  poetry,  with  its  Celtic  element  like  a  fresh  wind 
within 'it,  is  clearly  marked. 

Other  poets,  of  whom  Mr.  Russell  is  chief,  have  made 
mysticism  alone  their  subject.  The  powers  which  spiritually 
move  under  the  visible  surface  of  human  life,  and  lead  it,  in 
its  blindness,  on  to  goals  of  which  it  knows  nothing;  the 
powers  which  invisibly  move  under  the  forces  and  forms  of  the 
natural  world,  and  which  create  and  recreate  it  day  by  day  by 
Thought  and  Love  —  these  are  the  subjects  of  the  song  of  these 
poets,  and  though  we  have  .had  purely  mystic  poets  in  England, 
yet  we  have  none  now,  and  it  is  well  to  recover  this  element 
for  Art.  Only,  if  it  were  possible  for  them  to  write  about 
universal  human  life  as  well,  as  all  the  greater  poets  have 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 


done,  and  about  Nature  as  she  seems  to  the  senses  as  well  as 
to  the  soul,  it  were  better.  Shelley,  who  was  mystic  enough  on 
one  side  of  his  being,  was  in  full  sympathy  with  the  common 
life  of  men  and  women  on  another  side.  Otherwise  the  purely 
mystic  poetry,  with  all  its  charm  and  art,  hands  on  no  torch. 
It  is  then  a  childless  woman. 

Other  writers,  both  men  and  women,  have  written  on 
religious  matters  without  any  admixture  of  mysticism,  and 
their  poetry  approaches  more  nearly  to  imaginative  work  than 
the  distinctly  religious  poetry  of  England.  The  religious  poets 
of  Ireland  are  almost  altogether  Catholic,  and  it  is  well  for 
poetry  that  it  is  so.  The  Church  of  England  poetry  is  weighted 
away  from  Art  by  doctrinal  and  ecclesiastical  formula,  by  a 
diluted  scepticism  of  the  supernatural,  and  by  a  distrust  and 
reprobation  of  enthusiasm  which  has  its  source  in  the  temper  of 
the  universities  —  a  temper  which  Trinity  College  has  inade- 
quately imitated.  As  to  the  Nonconformists,  they  cherish 
a  most  sorrowful  want  of  imagination.  Beauty  has  no 
temple  among  their  shrines,  and  it  seems  a  pity  that  so 
large  and  influential  a  body  of  citizens  should  be  incapable 
of  producing  any  fine  religious  poetry.  In  Ireland,  however, 
the  immense  store  of  poetic  subjects  which  belong  to  the 
Catholic  Church,  the  living  faith  in  the  legendary  world  of  the 
saints  and  in  miracle,  the  multitude  of  thoughts,  stories,  and 
passions  which  cluster  round  the  vast  antiquity  of  the  Church 
of  Rome,  and  the  poetic  image  (of  which  I  have  spoken)  of 
the  young  and  virgin  beauty  of  the  persecuted  Church  of 
Ireland,  present  to  the  poetic  religious  temper  beautiful  and 
innumerable  motives  for  song,  and  create  incessant  emotion 
round  them.  I  wonder  there  is  not  more  religious  poetry 
written  in  Ireland,  and  in  the  Irish  spirit.  At  present,  we  are 
not  likely  to  have  it  in  England.  Christina  Rossetti  is  its  only 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 


imaginative  representative  in  modern  English,  and  she  was  at 
root  Italian.  Her  work  has  that  high,  pure,  keen  spiritual 
note  which  the  Celtic  Catholic  poetry  loves  to  hear.  And  in 
it  also  is  that  mingling  of  earthly  sorrow  with  celestial  joy,  of 
sweetness  and  austerity,  in  an  atmosphere  of  mystic  ecstasy, 
which  is  vital,  but  not  yet  fully  developed,  in  the  Celtic 
revival. 

As  yet,  in  modern  Ireland,  the  larger  religion  is  un- 
touched, the  religion  of  the  greater  poets — not  their  personal 
religion  which  is  often  limited  —  but  that  which  poetry  of  its 
own  will  creates ;  which  answers  to  the  unformulated  aspira- 
tions of  the  soul  towards  the  eternal  love;  which  is  neither 
Catholic  nor  Protestant,  but  includes  both ;  which  has  no  fixed 
creed,  no  necessary  ritual,  no  formulas  ;  and  no  Church  but  that 
invisible  Church  with  which  the  innumerable  spirits  of  the 
universe  are  in  communion,  and  whose  device  bears  these 
words  :  '  The  Letter  killeth,  but  the  Spirit  giveth  life.'  It  is 
my  hope  that  the  spiritual  tendency  of  Irish  poetry  will 
embody  that  conception. 

These  three  tendencies  in  Irish  poetry  —  each  with  its  dis- 
tinctive Celtic  touch,  towards  religion,  towards  mysticism,  and 
towards  a  mingling  of  both  into  one,  have  been  united  in 
the  poems  of  Mr.  Yeats.  He  has  added  to  them  a  spiritualised 
representation  of  the  ancient  Celtic  stories,  and  he  has  also  done 
some  work,  direct,  simple,  and  humane,  on  actual  life.  His 
poetry  has  therefore  a  wider  range  than  that  of  his  fellow-poets. 
Moreover,  he  has  suffused  these  various  kinds  of  verse  with 
an  imaginative  spirituality  which  has  borne  their  subjects, 
while  they  belong  to  this  world,  into  the  invisible  world  of 
which  this  is  the  shadow.  I  hope  that,  having  proved  his 
universality,  he  will  not  fasten  down  into  any  one  of  these 
several  forms  of  poetry  and  abandon  the  rest.  He  has  a 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 


natural  turn  for  mysticism  and  its  symbolic  ways,  and  it  would 
be  a  great  loss  if  he  gave  up  to  this  particular  form  what  was 
meant  for  mankind ;  if,  like  Aaron's  serpent,  it  swallowed 
up  the  other  forms  of  poetry. 

Amid  the  varied  aims  of  these  poets  there  is  one  element 
common  to  them  all.  It  is  their  Nationalism.  That 
nationalism  has  on  the  whole  ceased  to  be  aggressive  against 
England,  and  that  is  all  the  better.  Poetry  has  no  national 
feuds.  But  the  nationalism  which,  in  love  of  Ireland,  sets  itself 
in  poetry  towards  the  steady  evolution  of  the  Celtic  nature, 
and  the  full  representation  of  its  varied  elements  —  that  is  vital 
in  these  poets,  and  is  vital  to  the  life,  growth,  and  flowering  of 
Irish  poetry.  Irish  poetry,  if  it  is  to  be  a  power  in  literature, 
must  be  as  Irish  as  English  poetry  is  English.  It  has  now 
gained  what  of  old  it  wanted.  It  has  gained  art.  Its  work  is 
no  longer  the  work  of  amateurs.  Its  manner  and  melody  are 
its  own.  Its  matter  is  not  yet  as  great  as  it  ought  to  be  for 
the  creation  of  poetry  of  the  higher  ranges.  The  Subject- 
matter  of  mankind  has  been  only  lightly  or  lyrically  treated  in 
Ireland,  or  only  in  such  side  issues  as  mysticism  or  religion  or  re- 
animation  of  the  past.  A  graver,  larger,  and  more  impassioned 
treatment  of  those  weighty  human  issues  which  live  in  the 
present,  but  are  universal  in  the  nature  of  man,  is  necessary 
before  Irish  poetry  can  reach  maturity. 

As  to  the  other  great  Subject-matter  —  outward  Nature  as 
seen  and  felt  by  man  —  that,  I  am  surprised  to  find,  consider- 
ing the  feeling  of  the  Celt  for  natural  scenery,  has  received  no 
adequate  treatment  from  the  Irish  poets.  What  they  have  as 
yet  done  in  this  way  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the  work 
of  English  or  French  poets  ;  moreover,  the  aspects  of  nature 
in  Ireland,  the  special  sentiment  and  soul  of  natural  scenery 
in  Ireland,  so  varied  from  sky  to  sea  and  from  sea  to  land, 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 


so  distinguished  and  so  individual,  have  not,  save  in  a  few 
scattered  lines,  been  expressed — I  had  almost  said,  have  not 
been  perceived — by  the  poets  who  live  in  that  scenery.  A  vast 
subject-matter,  then,  almost  untouched,  lies  before  the  future 
Irish  poets. 

I  have  said  that  Art  has  only  shown  itself  of  late  in  the 
Irish  poetry  of  this  century ;  nor  is  there  any  attempt  on  my 
part  to  claim  for  the  poems  in  this  book  a  lofty  place  in  litera- 
ture. The  river  of  Irish  poetry  in  the  English  language  is  yet  in 
its  youth.  It  rose  a  hundred  years  ago  in  the  far-off  hills,  and 
wrought  its  turbulent  way  down  the  channelled  gorge  it  carved 
for  its  stream  out  of  its  own  mountains.  Other  streams  have 
joined  it,  bearing  with  them  various  waters ;  and  it  has 
only  just  now  issued  from  the  hills,  and  begun  to  flow  in 
quieter  and  lovelier  lands,  glancing  from  ripple  to  pool  and 
from  pool  to  ripple,  among  woods  and  meadows,  happy,  and 
making  its  lovers  happy.  It  is  the  youngest  child  of  the 
Goddess  Poesy.  Let  it-  be  judged  as  a  youth.  In  time,  if  it 
remain  true  to  its  country's  spirit,  the  stream  that  has  just 
emerged  from  the  mountain  torrent  will  become  a  noble  river. 

STOPFORD  A.  BROOKE. 

October  1900. 


To  the  living  authors  who  have  kindly  sanctioned  the  inclusion  oi 
writings, of  theirs  in  this  collection  we  desire  to  express  our  sincere 
thanks.  We  also  gratefully  acknowledge  permission  given  by  the 
undernamed  publishing  houses  to  make  extracts  from  the  works 
set  opposite  their  names  : 

John  Lane  —  BALLADS  IN  PROSE,  and  UNDER  QUICKEN  BOUGHS 
by  Miss  Nora  Hopper;  THE  EARTH-BREATH,  by  A.  E. 

/.  M.  Dent  &>  Co.  —  THREE  BARDIC  TALES,  by  John  Todhunter. 
Cameron  &  Ferguson,  Glasgow — POEMS  by  'Leo'  (J.  K.  Casey). 
William  McGee,  Dublin  —  KOTTABOS. 

Blackwood  &  Sons  —  SONGS  OF  THE  ANTRIM  GLENS,  by  Moira 
O'Neill. 

Elkin  Matheivs — POEMS,  by  Lionel  Johnson;  ROSES  AND  RUE, 
by  Miss  Alice  Furlong. 

Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  Trubner  &>  Co.  —  ST.  AUGUSTINE'S  HOLIDAY 
AND  OTHER  POEMS,  by  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Alexander, 
Primate. 

Macmillan  &  Co.  —  POEMS,  by  Mrs.  Alexander. 

T.  Fisher  Unwin  —  BARDS  OF  THE  GAEL  AND  GALL,  by  George 
Sigerson,  M.D.,  F. R.U.I. ;  POEMS,  by  W.  B.  Yeats. 

We  have  also  to  thank  Lady  Ferguson  and  Mrs.  Allingham 
for  permission  to  include  extracts  from  the  works  of  Sir  Samuel 
Ferguson  and  of  William  Allingham,  and  the  Rev.  H.  Wynne  for 
a  similar  favour  in  regard  to  our  extract  from  Mrs.  Wynne's 
volume  '  Whisper.' 


XXXVI 


It  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate  here  all  the  works  which 
have  been  of  use  to  us  in  the  compilation  of  this  anthology,  but 
special  acknowledgment  must  be  made  to  the  editors  of  previous 
anthologies  whose  labours  have  lightened  ours.  Among  works 
which  have  been  of  special  service  to  us  are  Sir  Charles  Gavan 
Duffy's  BALLAD  POETRY  OF  IRELAND  ;  THE  HARP  OF  ERIN,  and 
other  collections  edited  by  *  Duncathail '  (R.  Varian)  ;  POETS  AND 
POETRY  OF  IRELAND,  by  Alfred  M.  Williams;  THE  BALLADS  OF 
IRELAND,  by  Edward  Hayes ;  IRISH  MINSTRELSY,  by  Halliday 
Sparling;  A  BOOK  OF  IRISH  VERSE,  by  W.  B.  Yeats.  Mr.  D.  J. 
CTDonoghue's  DICTIONARY  OF  IRISH  POETRY  has  of  course 
rendered  us  great  service  as  a  work  of  reference.  We  have  also 
to  thank  its  author  for  the  willingness  with  which  he  has  placed 
at  our  disposal  his  unrivalled  knowledge  of  Irish  literature.  Mr. 
John  O'Leary  has  also  kindly  permitted  us  to  draw  upon  his 
valuable  library  of  Irish  works,  as  well  as  upon  his  no  less 
valuable  store  of  judgment  and  information.  The  late  Mr.  John 
Kelly  lent  us  a  very  extensive  collection  made  by  him  of  fugitive 
verse  from  Irish  periodicals,  for  which  we  regret  that  we  cannot 
now  thank  him. 

THE   EDITORS. 


CONTENTS 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 
by  the  Rev.  Stopford  A. 
Brooke  .  .  .  .  vii 


BOOK   I 

INTRODUCTION  I 

The  Wearin'  o'  the  Green    .       2 
The  Sorrowful  Lamentation 
of  Callaghan,  Greally,  and 
Mullen    ....       3 
Hugh  Reynolds  .  .-- "  .         .       4 
Willie  Reilly       ...       6 
The  Night  before  Larry  was 

Stretched  ...  8 
'  Johnny,  I  Hardly  Knew  Ye '  10 
The  Cruiskeen  Lawn  .  .12 
Shule  Aroon  .  .'  .14 
Irish  Molly  O  .  .  .15 
The  Maid  of  Cloghroe  .  16 
Jenny  from  Ballinasloe  .  18 
The  Boyne  Water  .  .19 
By  Memory  Inspired  .  .21 
The  Shan  Van  Vocht  .  .  22 


BOOK    II 

WILLIAM    DRENNAN  : 

Introductory  Notice  by  D.  J. 
O'Donoghue   .         .         -25 

Erin 25 

The  Wake  of  William  Orr  .     27 
My  Father .          .          .          .28 

JOHN      PHILPOT     CURRAN  : 
Introductory  Notice     .          .     30 
The  Deserter's  Meditation  .     30 


R.  B.  SHERIDAN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  30 
Dry  be  that  Tear  .  .31 
Song  .  ...  .  .31 

G.  N.  REYNOLDS: 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  32 
Kathleen  O'More  .  .  32 

ANONYMOUS.        .        .         -33 
Kitty  of  Coleraine        .         .     33 

THOMAS  MOORE  : 

Introductory  Notice   by  the 

Rev.  S.  A.  Brooke  .  .  34 
The  Song  of  Fionnuala  .  43 
The  Irish  Peasant  to  his 

Mistress .  .  .  -44 
At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night  .  45 
When  He  Who  Adores  Thee  45 
After  the  Battle  .  .  .  45 
The  Light  of  Other  Days  .  46 
On  Music  .  .  .  -47 

Echo 47 

As  Slow  our  Ship  .  .  48 
No,  Not  More  Welcome  .  49 
My  Birthday  .  .  .  49 

CHARLES  WOLFE  : 

Introductory   Notice   by  T. 

W.  Rolleston  .  .  .51 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John 

Moore  .  .  .  •  S3 
Sonnet  .  .  .  -54 
Lines  written  to  Music  .  55 

LUKE  AYLMER  CONOLLY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  56 
The  Enchanted  Island  .  56 

MARGUERITE  A.  POWER  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  57 
A  Hidden  Rose-tree  .  .  57 


XXXV111 


CONTENTS 


GEORGE  DARLEY  :  PAGE 

Introductory    Notice   by  T. 

W.  Rolleston  ...  58 
From  Nepenthe  .  »  *.  60 
Hymn  to  the  Sun  .  »  60 
True  Loveliness .  .  .61 
The  Fallen  Star  .  .  .  62 
From  The  Fight  of  the  For- 
lorn .  .  .  .63 

SAMUEL  LOVER  : 

Introductory  Notice  by  D.  J. 

O'Donoghue  .  .  .64 
Widow  Machree  .  .  65 

Barney  O'Hea  .  .  -67 
Rory  O'More  ...  68 

CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  69 
Larry  M'Hale  .  .  .  70 
The  Widow  Malone  .  .71 

FRANCIS  SYLVESTER  MAHONY 

(FATHER  PROUT)  : 
Introductory  Notice     .         .     72 
The  Bells  of  Shandon  .         .     73 

JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  74 
The  Spinning- Wheel  .  .  74 
Kitty  Neil  .  .  .  .75 

WILLIAM  CARLETON  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  76 
Sir  Turlough  .  .  •  77 
A  Sigh  for  Knockmany  .  83 

GERALD  GRIFFIN  : 

Introductory      Notice      by 

Geo.  Sigerson,  M.D.      .       84%. 
Gile  Machree    .         .         .       85  X 
Cead  Mile  Failte,  Elim  !    .       87 
Lines  to  a  Seagull      .  88 

The  Wake  of  the  Absent  .  89 
Eileen  Aroon  .  .  90 

J.  J.  CAI.LANAN  : 

Introductory      Notice      by 

Geo.  Sigerson,  M.D.  .  92 
The  Dirge  of  O'Sullivan 

Bear  ....  93 
The  Convict  of  Clonmel  .  96 
Gougaune  Barta  .  •  .  97 
The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene  .  98 

EDWARD  WALSH  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  99 
Mo  Craoibhin  Cno  .  .  99 
Have  You  Been  at  Carrick  ?  101 


EDWARD  WALSH  (cont. ) :  PAGE 
The  Dawning  of  the  Day  .  102 
Lament  of  the  Mangaire 

Sugach  .         .         .      103 

GEORGE  Fox  : 

Introductory  Notice  .          .104 
The  County  of  Mayo  .      105 

JOHN  BANIM  : 

Introductory      Notice     by 

D.  J.  O'Donoghue  .  106 
Soggarth  Aroon  .  .107 
He  said  that  He  was  not 

Our  Brother  .  .  .108 
The  Irish  Mother  .  .109 


BOOK   III 
THE  POETS  OF  The  Nation 

INTRODUCTION     by   T.    W. 
Rolleston  .         .         .  in 

THOMAS  DAVIS  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .116 
Celts  and  Saxons  .  .  118 
Lament  for  the  Death  of 

Eoghan  Ruadh  O'Neill  .  120 
The  Sack  of  Baltimore  .  121 
The  Girl  of  Dunbwy  .  123 
Nationality  .  .  .124 

JOHN  DE  JEAN  FRAZER  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .125 
Song  for  July  1 2th,  1843  .  126 

JOHN  O'HAGAN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .127 
Ourselves  Alone  .  .127 
The  Old  Story.  .  .129 
Protestant  Ascendency  .  131 

SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY  : 
Introductory  Notice  .          .      133 
The  Muster  of  the  North    .      134 
The  Irish  Rapparees  .  137 

WILLIAM  B.  MCBURNEY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .139 
The  Croppy  Boy  .  -139 
The  Good  Ship  Castle  Down  140 

JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM  : 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead  .      142 

MARTIN  MACDEKMOTT  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  144 
Girl  of  the  Red  Mouth  .  144 


CONTENTS 


xxxix 


RICHARD     DALTON      WIL-  PAGE 

LIAMS  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  145 

The  Munster  War-Song  .  146 
The  Dying  Girl  .  .  147 

ELLEN    MARY    PATRICK    DOWN- 

IN<;  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  149 
My  Owen  .  .  .149 
The  Old  Church  at  Lismore  1 50 

ARTHUR  GERALD  GEOGHEGAN : 
Introductory  Notice  .          .      151 
After  Aughrim  .         .        \      152 

DENNY  LANE : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .152 
The    Lament    of  the    Irish 
Maiden          .       '.         -153 

MARY  KELLY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  153 

Tipperary  .        :.         .      154 

JOHN  KEEGAN  : 
Introductory  Notice  .          .      155 
The  Irish  Reaper's  Harvest 

Hymn 155 

The 'Dark  Girl'       .         .156 

M.  J.  BARRY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .158 
The  Sword  .-  .  .  159 

M.  TORMEY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  ,  160 
The  Ancient  Race  .  .  161 

T.  D'A.  McGEE  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  162 
The  Dead  Antiquary  .  163 
To  Duffy  in  Prison  .  .166 
Infelix  Felix  .  .  .167 
Salutation  to  the  Kelts  .  168 

D.  F.  MCCARTHY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .169 
'  Cease  to  do  Evil '    .          .170 
Spring    Flowers  from   Ire- 
land      .         .         .'-        .     172 

MICHAEL  DOHENY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  175 
A  Cushla  Gal  mo  Chree  .  175 

LADY  WILDE  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .'176 
The  Famine  Year      .         .      177 
(END  OF  POETS  OF  The  Nation} 

ANONYMOUS : 

A  Lay  of  the  Famine          .     1 79 


JAMES  MCCARROLL  :  PAGE 

Introductory  Notice  .  .180 

The  Irish  Wolf          .  .180 

JOHN  SAVAGE : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .      181 

Shane's  Head    .         .  .182 

JOHN  WALSH  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .184 

To  My  Promised  Wife  .     184 

Drimin  Donn  Dilis    .  .185 

D.    MACALEESE  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .186 

A  Memory         .         .  .      186 

JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .187 

Fionula     .         .         .  .189 

Abhrain  an  Bhuideil .  .      191 

Shemus  O'Brien         .  -193 

CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM  : 
Introductory      Notice      by 

John  O'Leary         .  -199 

Rory  of  the  Hill         .  .     200 

Myles  O'Hea    .         .  .     202 

The  Irish  Peasant  Girl  .     205 

St.  John's  Eve  .         .  .     206 

ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .     208 

Fineen  the  Rover       .  .     209 
The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick     210 

JOHN  KEEGAN  CASEY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .     21 1 
The  Rising  of  the  Moon    .     212 

Maire  my  Girl  .         .  .213 

ELLEN  O'LEARY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .214 
To  God  and  Ireland  True  .     215 

My  Old  Home  .         .  .216 

JOHN  FRANCIS  O'DONNELL  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .217 

A  Spinning  Song       .  .217 

T.  C.  IRWIN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .218 

A  Window  Song        .  .219 

A  Character      .         .  .     22 1 

From  Cresar       .          .  .     222 

To  a  Skull         .         .  .     224 

LADY  DUFFERIN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .     226 
Lament  of  the   Irish  Emi- 
grant    ....     226 

Terence's  Farewell     .  .     228 


xl 


CONTENTS 


ANONYMOUS  :  PAGE 

Music  in  the  Street    .         .  229 

DION  BOUCICAULT  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  232 

The  Exiled  Mother    .          .  232 

T.  D.  SULLIVAN: 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  233 

Steering  Home           .         .  234 

You  and  I          ...  235 

Dear  Old  Ireland       .         .  236 

FANNY  PARNELL  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  238 

Post-mortem     .         .         .  238 

BOOK   IV 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  : 
Introductory      Notice      by 

Lionel  Johnson  .  .  241 
Dark  Rosaleen .  .  .250 
A  Vision  of  Connaught  .  252 
Lament  for  the  Princes  .  254 
The  Dawning  of  the  Day  .  260 
Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan  .  261 
The  Woman  of  Three  Cows  262 
The  Karamanian  Exile  .  264 
The  Time  of  the  Barme- 
cides .  .  .  266 
Siberia  ....  268 
O'Hussey's  Ode  to  The 

Maguire         .                   .  269 

The  Nameless  One    .         .271 

Shapes  and  Signs       .          .273 

.  Gone  in  the  Wind      .          .  274 

Written     in     a      Nunnery 

Chapel  .         .         .         .  276 
SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  : 
Introductory      Notice      by 

A.  P.  Graves          .         .  276 

Selections  from  '  Congal '  .  290 

The  Burial  of  King  Connac  299 

From  Aideen's  Grave          .  303 

The  Fairy  Thorn       .          .  305 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland  .  308 

Lament  for  Thomas  Davis  .  308 

BOOK  V 

AUBREY  DE  VERB : 

Introductory  Notice  by 
Prof.  W.  Macneile 
Dixon  .  .  .  -311 


AUBREY  DE  VERE.  (cont. ) :  PAGE 
The  Sun  God    .         .         .314 

From  the  Bard  Ethell         .  315 

The  Wedding  of  the  Clans .  320 

Dirge  of  Rory  O'More        .  321 

Song         .         .         .-.  322 

Sorrow      ....  322 

The  Year  of  Sorrow,  1849  323 

The  Little  Black  Rose       .  329 

GEORGE  SIGERSON : 

Introductory      Notice      by 

Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D.  .  330 
The  Lost  Tribune  .  .  333 
The  Calling  ...  ..  334 
Far- A  way  .  .  -335 
The  Blackbird's  Song  .  336 
The  Ruined  Nest  .  .  336 
The  Dirge  of  Gael  .  .  338 
Things  Delightful  .  .  339 
Solace  in  Winter  .  .  340 
Lay  of  Norse- Irish  Sea- 
Kings  ....  341 
Love's  Despair  .  .  344 

WHITLEY  STOKES  : 

Introductory  Notice  .          .  345 

Lament  for  King  Ivor        .  346 

King  Ailill's  Death    .         .  347 

Man  Octipartite         .         .  348 

JOHN  TODHUNTER : 

Introductory      Notice      by 
Prof.     G.     F.     Savage- 
Armstrong     .         .          -35O 
Morning    in    the     Bay    of 

Naples  .         .         .         -3S2 

The  Sons  of  Turann  .          .  353 
Song          .         .         .         .357 

Beethoven          .         .         .  358 
From  The  Fate  of  the  Sons 

.ofUsna          .         .         .  358 

Fairy  Gold         .         .  363 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  : 
Introductory      Notice      by 

Lionel  Johnson       .         .  364 

/Eolian  Harp    .          .          .  367 

A  Gravestone    .         .         .  368 

The  Banshee     .         .         .  368 

The  Fairies        .         .         .  370 
The    Winding     Banks    of 

Erne      .         .         .         .  371 

The  Ruined  Chapel  .         .  374 

Therania  ....  375 


CONTENTS 


xli 


PAGE 

vii 


S.  A.  BROOKE  : 

Introductory  Notice  . 
The  Noble  Lay  of  Aillinn  .     376 
The  Earth  and  Man  .         .     379 
ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES : 
Introductory      Notice      by 

G.  A.  Greene         .         .     380 
From   The   Girl   with    the 

Cows     .         .         .         -385 
The  Limerick  Lasses          .     389 
The  Irish  Spinning- Wheel.     392 
Irish  Lullaby    .         .         »     393 
Father  Q'Flynn         .         .     394 
Fan  Fitzgerl      .         .         -395 
Herring  is  King         .         .     396 
FRANCIS  A.  FAHY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     398 
The  Donovans  ."       .         .     398 
Irish  Molly  O   .         .         -399 
The  Quid  Plaid  Shawl        .     400 
MALACHY  RYAN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .401 
Rose  Adair        .         .         .401 
P.  J.  COLEMAN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     403 
Seed-Time         .        ...        .     4°3 

P.  J.  McCALL : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     404 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy    .         .     405 
Herself  and  Myself    .         .     406 
LADY  GILBERT  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     407 
Song          .         .         .    .      .     407 

Saint  Brigid      .          .         .     408 
KATHARINE  TYNAN-HINKSON  : 
Introductory      Notice      by 

G.  A.  Greene         .         .     409 
Larks        .         .         .         .     414 

Daffodil    ...         .  .      .     414 

Summer-Sweet.         .         .415 
August  Weather         .         .415 
An  Island  Fisherman         .     416 
Lux  in  Tenebris         .         •     417 
Winter  Evening         .         .417 
Waiting    ....     418 

Saint     Francis     and     the 
Wolf     .         .         ...     422 

ROSE  KAVANAGH  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     425 
Saint     Michan's     Church- 
yard     ....     426 


ALICE  FURLONG  :  PACE 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  427 

The  Dreamer    .         .         .  427 

JANE  BARLOW  : 

Introductory      Notice      by 

G.  A.  Greene         .         .  428 

Misther  Denis's  Return      .  432 

The  Flitting  of  the  Fairies .  435 

DORA  SIGERSON  (MRS. 

CLEMENT  SHORTER)  : 
Introductory      Notice     by 

Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D.   .  437 

Cean  Duv  Deelish      .         .  440 

The  Wind  on  the  Hills      .  440 

A  Rose  will  Fade      .          .  442 

The  One  Forgotten  .          .  442 

All  Souls'  Night         .         .  443 

A  Ballad  of  Marjorie          .  444 

STEPHEN  Lucius  GWYNN  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  446 

Out  in  the  Dark         .         .  446 

Mater  Severa     .         .         .  447 

FRANCES  WYNNE: 

Introductory  Notice  .          .  448 

A  Lesson  in  Geography      .  448 

«  MOIRA.   O'NEILL  :  ' 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  451 

Corrymeela        .         .         .  451 

Johneen     .          .          .         .  452 
Lookin'  Back    .         .         -453 

DOUGLAS  HYDE  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  454 

My  Love  ....  454 
Ringleted     Youth    of    my 

Love     ....  456 

My  Grief  on  the  Sea .         .  457 
Little  Child       .         .         -457 

The  Address  of  Death        .  458 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  460 

The  Dead  at  Clonmacnois  .  460 

The  Lament  of  Maev          .  461 

Song  of  Maelduin      .         .  462 

THOMAS  BOYD  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  463 

To  the  Leanan  Sidhe          .  463 

The  King's  Son          .         .  465 

LIONEL  JOHNSON  : 

Introductory  Notice  by  W. 

B.  Yeats         .         .         .465 
Ways  of  War     .         .         .467 


xlii 


CONTENTS 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  (conl.}:  PAGE 
Te  Martyrum  Candidates  .  468 
The  Dark  Angel  .  .  469 
The  Church  of  a  Dream  .  470 
The  Age  of  a  Dream  .  471 

NORA  HOPPER  : 

Introductory  Notice  by  W, 

B.  Yeats  .  .  .  .471 
The  Fairy  Fiddler  .  .  473 
The  Dark  Man  .  .  474 

Phyllis  and  Damon    .          -475 

ALTHEA  GYLES  : 

Introductory  Notice  by  W. 

B.  Yeats  .  .  .  475 
Sympathy  .  .  .  .  .  475 

WILLIAM  LARMINIE: 

Introductory      Notice      by 

'A.  E.'  .  .  .  476 
The  Speech  of  Emer  .  .  477 
Epilogue  to  Fand  .  .  479 
Consolation  .  .  .  480 
The  Sword  of  Tethra  .  481 

STANDISH  J.  O'GRADY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .  .  482 
Lough  Bray  .  .  .  483 
I  Give  my  Heart  to  Thee  .  484 

«  A.  E.  : ' 

Introductory  Notice  by  W. 

B.  Yeats  .  .  .485 
Sacrifice  .  .  .  '  .  487 
Dana  .  .  .  487 

Symbolism  .          .     488 

Janus  .  .  .  .  489 
Connla'sWell  .  .  .489 
Our  Thrones  Decay  .  .490 
The  Three  Counsellors  .  490 
Inheritance  .  .  '491 
The  Memory  of  Earth  .  491 

W.  B.  YEATS  : 

Introductory     Notice      by 

T.  W.  Rolleston  .  .  492 
The  Hosting  of  the  Sidhe  .  498 
Michael  Robartes  remem- 
bers Forgotten  Beauty  .  499 
The  Rose  of  the  World  .  500 
The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree  500 
When  you  are  Old  .  .501 
A  Dream  of  a  Blessed 

Spirit     .         .  ,      .         .501 
The  Lamentation  of  the  Old 
Pensioner       .         .         .     502 


W.    B.   YEATS  (cont. )  :  PAGE 

The  Two  Trees          .     '     .  502 

The  Island  of  Sleep  .         .  503 

BOOK   VI 

SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE  : 
Introductory     Notice      by 
Prof.        W.        Macneile 

Dixon   .      -  .         .         .  509 

Gougane  Barra .         .         .  511 

Liberty  of  the  Press  .  .  511 
The  Rock  of  Cashel  .  .512 
The  Shannon  .  .  .512 
Spanish  Point  .  .  .512 

JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM  : 

Introductory  Notice  .          .  513 

Sonnet  :  Majuba  Hill         .  514 

Social  Heredity     '    .         .  514 

Nationality         .    >     .  -'      .  515 

WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  : 

Introductory  Notice  .          •  5r5 

Among  the  Sand-hills  .  516 
Inscription  .  .,  .518 

Very  Far  Away          .         .  518 

CECIL  FRANCES  ALEXANDER: 

Introductory  Notice  .          .  519 

The  Siege  of  Derry    .         .  520 

The  Irish  Mother's  Lament  523 

Dreams     .          .  '       •          .  526 

EDWARD  DOWDEN  : 

Introductory      Notice     by 
Prof.        W.        Macneile 

Dixon    .         .         .         .  527 

On  the  Heights          .         .  528 

Aboard  the  '  Sea  Swallow  '  530 

Oasis         .         .         .         •  531 

EDMUND  JOHN  ARMSTRONG: 

Introductory  Notice  .  531 

The  Blind  Student  .  .  532 
Adieu  .  .  .  .532 

From  Fionnuala         .         .  533 

GEORGE   FRANCIS   SAVAGE- 
ARMSTRONG  : 
Introductory  Notice  by  T. 

W.  Rolleston          .         -534 

The  Scalp          .         .         .  538 

A  Wicklow  Scene      .         .  538 

Wicklow  ....  539 

Through  the  Solitudes        .  542 

Gay  Provence  .         .         .  546 


CONTENTS 


xliii 


WILLIAM  WILKINS  :  PAGE 

Introductory     Notice      by 
Prof.  G.  F.  Savage-Arm- 
strong  ....     547 
From  Action    .         .  548 

Disillusion        .       .,'.  551 

The  Magazine  Fort    .         -551 

GEORGE  ARTHUR  GREENE : 
Introductory  Notice  .  .  552 
Art's  Lough  .  .  .553 
On  Great  Sugarloaf  .  -553 
The  Return  .  .  .  554 
Lines  -  ....  556 

WILLIAM  KNOX  JOHNSON  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     556 
An  Anniversary          .         .     556 

W.  E.  H.  LECKY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .     558 
Undeveloped  Lives   .         .     558 


W.  E.  H.  LECKY  (font.)  :  PAGE 

The  Sower  and  his  Seed    .  559 

THE  '  KOTTABISTAI  : ' 

INTRODUCTION  by  Prof.  G.  F. 

Savage- Armstrong  .  560 

C.  P.  MULVANY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  561 

Emmeline          .         .          .  562 

Long  Deserted .         .         .  563 

JOHN  HARTLEY  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  564 

The  Valley  of  Shanganagh  564 

A  Budget  of  Paradoxes       .  565 

ARTHUR  PALMER  : 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  5^5 

Epicharis ....  566 

PERCY  SOMERS  PAYNE: 

Introductory  Notice  .         .  5^7 

Rest          ....  568 


IRISH    POETS 


BOOK    I 

THERE  are  two  classes  of  anonymous  poems— those  which 
seem  to  have  grown  up  among  the  people,  often  perhaps  the 
work  of  more  than  one  hand,  and  reflecting  the  spirit  rather 
of  a  class  or  of  a  race  than  of  an  individual  j  and  those  which 
are  distinctly  individual  and  are  only  anonymous  by  the 
accident  that  no  author's  name  has  ever  been  affixed  to  them. 
The  former  class  of  poems  are  represented  in  the  first  and 
briefest  book  of  this  Anthology.  They  represent,  mainly,  the 
earliest  attempts  of  the  Irish  peasantry  to  express  themselves 
in  poetic  form  in  the  English  language. 

Multitudes  of  such  attempts  must  have  been  made  and 
lost.  Now  and  then  a  stray  line  or  two  has  by  virtue  of  its 
pathetic  music  caught  the  ear  of  some  man  of  letters  and  found 
its  way  into  print.  Sir  Charles  Duffy  has  recorded  his  early 
recollection  of  a  rude  ballad  of  this  description,  at  the  singing 
of  which  he  saw  a  whole  dinner  company  dissolved  in  tears,  and 
in  which  the  warm-hearted  reception  given  by  Belfast  to  Wolfe 
Tone  and  the  Catholic  envoys  of  1793  on  their  way  to  plead 
for  the  freedom  of  their  faith  was  thus  spoken  of : 

The  Lord  in  His  mercy  be  kind  to  Belfast : 
The  poor  Irish  exile  she  soothed  as  he  passed. 

Many  such  things  there  must  have  been,  many  more  than 
ever  found  their  way  into  print,  and  many  which  were  printed 
as  ballad  sheets  and  are  now  lost  for  ever.  But  some  have 

B 


BOOK  I 


survived  in  chapbooks,  anthologies,  old  newspapers,  stray 
records  of  every  kind,  and  of  these  a  selection  is  here  given. 
In  some  the  grandiloquent  phrase  of  the  hedge-schoolmaster  is 
noticeable,  some  are  pieces  of  wild  irresponsible  humour,  some 
have  a  tender  and  unconscious  grace,  or  are  animated  by  a 
grotesque  vitality,  or  express  with  rude  fervour  the  patriotic 
devotion  of  the  peasant.  A  peasant-poetry  of  far  greater  beauty 
and  elevation  was  in  process  of  creation  at  the  time  when  the 
majority  of  these  pieces  were  written — the  eighteenth  century 
and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth— but  this  was  in  the  Gaelic 
tongue,  then  the  language  of  the  masses  of  the  people.  In 
his  "  Love  Songs  "  and  "  Religious  Songs  "  of  Connacht,  Dr. 
Douglas  Hyde  has  turned  much  of  this  popular  poetry  into 
English  verse,  retaining  the  characteristic  traits  of  the  original. 
Specimens  of  this  will  be  found  under  his  name  in  Book  V. 
Here,  however,  we  present  only  the  first  stammerings  of  the 
Irish  spirit  in  the  new  tongue  which,  about  the  beginning  of 
this  century,  began  to  be  the  language  of  Irish  literature. 

THE  WEARIN'  o'  THE  GREEN 

The  finest  of  Irish  street-ballads,  and  described  by  a  writer  in  the  Athenceum 
in  1887  as  probably  the  finest  street-ballad  ever  written.  One  of  its  numerous 
variants  sung  in  a  play  of  Boucicault's  has  given  rise  to  the  belief  that  he  wrote 
it,  but  it  appe  irs  to  date  from  about  the  year  1798.  It  deserves  to  be  called  the 
Irish  National  Anthem,  if  any  piece  of  poetry  can  claim  that  title. 

OH,  Paddy  dear  !  an'  did  ye  hear  the  news  that's  goin'  round  ? 

The  shamrock  is  by  law  forbid'to  grow  on  Irish  ground  ! 

No  more  St.  Patrick's  Day  we'll  keep,  his  colour  can't  be  seen, 

For  there's  a  cruel  law  agin  the  wearin'  o'  the  green  ! 

I  met  wid  Napper  Tandy,  and  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 

And  he  said, '  How's  poor  Ould  Ireland,  and  how  does  she  stand  ?' 

She's  the  most  disthressful  country  that  iver  yet  was  seen, 

For  they're  hangin'  men  and  women  there  for  wearin'  o'  the  green. 

An'  if  the  colour  we  must  wear  is  England's  cruel  red, 

Let  it  remind  us  of  the  blood  that  Ireland  has  shed  ; 

Then  pull  the  shamrock  from  your  hat,  and  throw  it  on  the  sod, — 

And  never  fear,  'twill  take  root  there,  tho'  under  foot  'tis  trod  ! 


STREET  BALLADS 


When  law  can  stop  the  blades  of  grass  from  growin'  as  they  grow, 
And  when  the  leaves  in  summer-time  their  colour  dare  not  show, 
Then  I  will  change  the  colour,  too,  I  wear  in  my  caubeen, 
But  till  that  day,  plaze  God,  I'll  stick  to  wearin'  o'  the  green. 


THE  SORROWFUL  LAMENTATION  OF  CALLAGHAN,  GREALLY 
AND  MULLEN 

KILLED  AT  THE  FAIR  OF  TURLOUGHMORE 

A   STREET-BALLAD 

This  is  a  genuine  ballad  of  the  people,  written  and  sung  among  them. 
The  reader  will  see  at  once  how  little  resemblance  it  bears  to  \.\\zpseudo  Irish 
songs  of  the  stage,  or  even  to  the  street-ballads  manufactured  by  the  ballad- 
singers.  It  is  very  touching,  and  not  without  a  certain  unpremeditated  grace. 
The  vagueness,  which  leaves  entirely  untold  the  story  it  undertook  to  recount, 
is  a  common  characteristic  of  the  Anglo-Irish  songs  of  the  people.  The  cir- 
cumstance on  which  it  is  founded  took  place  in  1843,  at  the  fair  of  Darry- 
nacloughery,  held  at  Turloughmore.  A  faction-fight  having  occurred  at  the 
fair,  the  arrest  of  some  of  the  parties  led  to  an  attack  on  the  police  ;  after  the 
attack  had  abated  or  ceased,  the  police  fired  on  the  people,  wounded  several,  and 
killed  the  three  men  whose  names  stand  at  the  head  of  the  ballad.  They  were 
indicted  for  murder,  and  pleaded  the  order  of  Mr.  Brew,  the  stipendiary  magis- 
trate, which  was  admitted  as  a  justification.  Brew  died  before  the  day  appointed 
for  his  trial. — Note  by  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

'  COME,  tell  me,  dearest  mother,  what  makes  my  father  stay, 

Or  what  can  be  the  reason  that  he's  so  long  away  ? ' 

*  Oh  !  hold  your  tongue,  my  darling  son,  your  tears  do  grieve  me 

sore  ; 
I  fear  he  has  been  murdered  in  the  fair  of  Turloughmore. 

Come,  all  you  tender  Christians,  I  hope  you  will  draw  near ; 
It's  of  this  dreadful  murder  I  mean  to  let  you  hear, 
Concerning  those  poor  people  whose  loss  we  do  deplore 
(The  Lord  have  mercy  on  their  souls)  that  died  at  Turloughmore. 

It  is  on  the  First  of  August,  the  truth  I  will  declare, 
Those  people  they  assembled  that  day  all  at  the  fair  ; 
But  little  was  their  notion  what  evil  was  in  store, 
All  by  the  bloody  Peelers  at  the  fair  of  Turloughmore. 

B2 


BOOK  1 


Were  you  to  see  that  dreadful  sight  'twould  grieve  your  heart,  I 

know, 

To  see  the  comely  women  and  the  men  all  lying  low  ; 
God  help  their  tender  parents,  they  will  never  see  them  more, 
For  cruel  was  their  murder  at  the  fair  of  Turloughmore. 

It's  for  that  base  bloodthirsty  crew,  remark  the  word  I  say, 
The  Lord  He  will  reward  them  against  the  judgment-day  ; 
The  blood  they  have  taken  innocent,  for  it  they'll  suffer  sore, 
And  the  treatment  that  they  gave  to  us  that  day  at  Turloughmore. 

The  morning  of  their  trial  as  they  stood  up  in  the  dock, 

The  words  they  spoke  were  feeling,  the  people  round  them  flock  : 

'  I  tell  you,  Judge  and  Jury,  the  truth  I  will  declare, 

It  was  Brew  that  ordered  us  to  fire  that  evening  at  the  fair.' 

Now  to  conclude  and  finish  this  sad  and  doleful  fray, 

I  hope  their  souls  are  happy  against  the  judgment-day  ; 

It  was  little  time  they  got,  we  know,  when  they  fell  like  new-mowed 
hay, 

May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  their  souls  against  the  judgment- 
day. 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  HUGH  REYNOLDS 

A   STREET-BALLAD 

I  copied  this  ballad  from  a  broad-sheet  in  the  collection  of  Mr.  Davis  ; 
but  could  learn  nothing  of  its  date,  or  the  circumstances  connected  with  it.  It 
is  clearly  modern,  however,  and  founded  on  the  story  of  an  abduction,  which 
terminated  differently  from  the  majority  of  these  adventures.  The  popular 
sympathy  in  such  cases  is  generally  in  favour  of  the  gallant,  the  impression 
being  that  an  abduction  is  never  attempted  without  at  least  a  tacit  consent  on  the 
part  of  the  girl.  Whenever  she  appears  as  a  willing  witness  for  the  prosecution  it 
is  said  she  has  been  tampered' with  by  her  friends,  and  public  indignation  falls 
upon  the  wrong  object.  The  '  Lamentation '  was  probably  written  for  or  by 
the  ballad-singers ;  but  it  is  the  best  of  its  bad  class. 

The  student  would  do  wel^to  compare  it  with  the  other  street-ballads  in  the 
collection  ;  and  with  the  simple  old  traditional  ballads,  such  as  '  Shule  Aroon ' 
and  '  Peggy  Bawn,1  that  he  may  discover,  if  possible,  where  the  charm  lies 
that  recommends  strains  so  rude  and  naked  to  the  most  cultivated  minds. 
These  ballads  have  done  what  the  songs  of  our  greatest  lyrical  poets  have  not 


STREET  BALLADS  frc.  5 


done— delighted  both  the  educated  and  the  ignorant.  Whoever  hopes  for  an 
equally  large  and  contrasted  audience  must  catch  their  simplicity,  directness, 
and  force,  or  whatever  else  constitutes  their  peculiar  attraction.  —Note  by  Sir 
Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  Ball  id  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

MY  name  it  is  Hugh  Reynolds,  I  come  of  honest  parents  ; 

Near  Cavan  I  was  born,  as  plainly  you  may  see  ; 
By  loving  of  a  maid,  one  Catherine  MacCabe, 

My  life  has  been  betrayed  ;  she's  a  dear  maid  to  me.1 

The  country  were  bewailing  my  doleful  situation, 

But  still  I'd  expectation  this  maid  would  set  me  free  ; 

But,  oh  !  she  was  ungrateful,  her  parents  proved  deceitful, 
And  though  I  loved  her  faithful,  she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

Young  men  and  tender  maidens,  throughout  this  Iri^h  nation, 
Who  hear  my  lamentation,  I  hope  you'll  pray  for  me  ; 

The  truth  I  will  unfold,  that  my  precious  blood  she  sold, 
In  the  grave  I  must  lie  cold  ;  she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

For  now  my  glass  is  run,  and  the  hour  it  is  come, 
And  I  must  die  for  love  and  the  height  of  loyalty : 

I  thought  it  was  no  harm  to  embrace  her  in  my  arms, 
Or  take  her  from  her  parents  ;  but  she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

Adieu,  my  loving  father,  and  you,  my  tender  mother, 

Farewell,  my  dearest  brother,  who  has  suffered  sore  for  me ; 

With  irons  I'm  surrounded,  in  grief  I  lie  confounded, 
By  perjury  unbounded  !  she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

Now,  I  can  say  no  more  ;  to  the  Law-board  -  I  must  go, 
There  to  take  the  last  farewell  of  my  friends  and  counterie  ; 

May  the  angels,  shining  bright,  receive  my  soul  this  night, 
And  convey  me  into  heaven  to  the  blessed  Trinity. 


1  '  A  dear  maid  to  me.'     An  Irish  idiom  ;  meaning,  not  that  she  was 
much  beloved  by  him,  but  that  his  love  for  her  brought  a  heavy  penalty 
with  it-^cost  him  dearly.     Observe  the  effect  of  this  idiom  at  the  close 
of  the  second  verse. 

2  Gallows. 


BOOK  I 


WILLY  REILLY 

Willy  Reilly  was  the  first  ballad  I  ever  heard  recited,  and  it  made  a  pain- 
fully vivid  impression  on  my  mind.  I  have  never  forgotten  the  smallest  incident 
of  it.  The  story  on  which  it  is  founded  happened  some  sixty  years  ago  ;  and 
a-;  the  lover  was  a  young  Catholic  farmer,  and  the  lady's  family  of  high 
Orange  principles,  it  got  a  party  character,  which,  no  doubt,  contributed  to  its 
great  popularity.  There  is  no  family  under  the  rank  of  gentry,  in  the  inland 
counties  of  Ulster,  where  it  is  not  familiarly  known.  Nurses  and  sempstresses, 
the  honorary  guardians  of  national  songs  and  legends,  have  taken  it  into 
special  favour,  and  preserved  its  popularity.— Note  by  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy, 
Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

*  OH  !  rise  up,  Willy  Reilly,  and  come  along  with  me, 
I  mean  for  to  go  with  you  and  leave  this  counterie, 

To  leave  my  father's  dwelling,  his  houses  and  free  land ;' 
And  away  goes  Willy  Reilly  and  his  dear  Coolen  Ban. 

They  go  by  hills  and  mountains,  and  by  yon  lonesome  plain, 
Through  shady  groves  and  valleys,  all  dangers  to  refrain  ; 
But  her  father  followed  after  with  a  well-armed  band, 
And  taken  was  poor  Reilly  and  his  dear  Coolen  Ban. 

It's  home  then  she  was  taken,  and  in  her  closet  bound  ; 
Poor  Reilly  all  in  Sligo  jail  lay  on  the  stony  ground, 
Till  at  the  bar  of  justice,  before  the  Judge  he'd  stand, 
For  nothing  but  the  stealing  of  his  dear  Coolen  Ban. 

1  Now  in  the  cold,  cold  iron  my  hands  and  feet  are  bound, 
I'm  handcuffed  like  a  murderer,  and  tied  unto  the  ground. 
But  all  the  toil  and  slavery  I'm  willing  for  to  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succoured  by  my  dear  Coolen  Ban? 

The  jailor's  son  to  Reilly  goes,  and  thus  to  him  did  say  : 
4  Oh  !  get  up,  Willy  Reilly,  you  must  appear  this  day, 
For  great  Squire  Foillard's  anger  you  never  can  withstand, 
I'm  afeer'd  you'll  suffer  sorely  for  your  dear  Coolen  Ban. 

'This  is  the  news,  young  Reilly,  last  night  that  I  did  hear : 
The  lady's  oath  will  hang  you  or  else  will  set  you  clear.' 

*  If  that  be  so,'  says  Reilly,  '  her  pleasure  I  will  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succoured  by  my  dear  Coolen  Ban? 


STREET  BALLADS  &>c. 


Now  Willy's  drest  from  top  to  toe  all  in  a  suit  of  green, 
His  hair  hangs  o'er  his  shoulders  most  glorious  to  be  seen  ; 
He's  tall  and  straight,  and  comely  as  any  could  be  found  ; 
He's  fit  for  Foillard's  daughter,  was  she  heiress  to  a  crown. 

The  Judge  he  said  :  '  This  lady  being  in  her  tender  youth, 

If  Reilly  has  deluded  her  she  will  declare  the  truth.' 

Then,  like  a  moving  beauty  bright,  before  him  she  did  stand, 

'  You're  welcome  there,  my  heart's  delight  and  dear  Coolen  Ban.' 

*  Oh,  gentlemen,'  Squire  Foillard  said,  '  with  pity  look  on  me, 
This  villain  came  amongst  us  to  disgrace  our  family, 
And  by  his  base  contrivances  this  villainy  was  planned  ; 
If  I  don't  get  satisfaction  I'll  quit  this  Irish  land.' 

The  lady  with  a  tear  began,  and  thus  replied  she : 

4  The  fault  is  none  of  Reilly's,  the  blame  lies  all  on  me  -, 

I  forced  him  for  to  leave  his  place  and  come  along  with  me  ; 

I  loved  him  out  of  measure,  which  wrought  our  destiny.' 

Out  bespoke  the  noble  Fox,1  at  the  table  he  stood  by  : 
'  Oh,  gentlemen,  consider  on  this  extremity  ; 
To  hang  a  man  for  love  is  a  murder,  you  may  see  : 
So  spare  the  life  of  Reilly,  let  him  leave  this  counterie.' 

'  Good  my  lord,  he  stole  from  her  her  diamonds  and  her  rings, 
Gold  watch  and  silver  buckles,  and  many  precious  things, 
Which  cost  me  in  bright  guineas  more  than  five  hundred  pounds, 
I'll  have  the  life  of  Reilly  should  I  lose  ten  thousand  pounds.' 

'  Good  my  lord,  I  gave  them  him  as  tokens  of  true  love, 
And  when  we  are  a-parling  I  will  them  all  remove  ; 
If  you  have  got  them,  Reilly,  pray  send  them  home  to  me.' 
'  I  will,  my  loving  lady,  with  many  thanks  to  thee.' 

4  There  is  a  ring  among  them  I  allow  yourself  to  wear, 
With  thirty  locket  diamonds  well  set  in  silver  fair, 
And  as  a  true-love  token  wear  it  on  your  right  hand, 
That  you'll  think  on  my  poor  broken  heart  when  you're  in  foreign 
land.' 


1  The  prisoner's  counsel,  afterwards  a  judge. 


8  BOOK  I 


Then  out  spoke  noble  Fox  :  *  You  may  let  the  prisoner  go  ; 
The  lady's  oath  has  cleared  him,  as  the  Jury  all  may  know. 
She  has  released  her  own  true  love,  she  has  renewed  his  name  ; 
May  her  honour  bright  gain  high  estate,  and  her  offspring  rise  to 
fame!' 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  LARRY  WAS  STRETCHED 

The  authorship  of  this  extraordinary  piece  of  poetic  ribaldry  has  been  much 
discussed,  but  the  name  of  the  modern  Villon  who  uttered  such  an  authentic 
strain  from  La  Bas  has  never  been  discovered,  if  indeed  it  had  any  single 
author.  Probably  it  was  mainly  a  sense  of  humorous  contrast  which  led  it  for 
a  long  time  to  be  attributed  to  a  dignitary  of  the  Established  Church,  Dean 
Burrowes.  It  is  written  in  Dublin  slang  of  the  end  of  last  century. 

THE  night  before  Larry  was  stretched, 

The  boys  they  all  paid  him  a  visit  ; 
A  bait  in  their  sacks,  too,  they  fetched  ; 

They  sweated  their  duds  till  they  riz  it  : 
For  Larry  was  ever  the  lad, 

When  a  boy  was  condemned  to  the  squeezer, 
Would  fence  all  the  duds  that  he  had 

To  help  a  poor  friend  to  a  sneezer, 
And  warm  his  gob  'fore  he  died. 

The  boys  they  came  crowding  in  fast, 

They  drew  all  their  stools  round  about  him, 
Six  glims  round  his  trap-case  were  placed, 

He  couldn't  be  well  waked  without  'em. 
When  one  of  us  asked  could  he  die 

Without  having  duly  repented, 
Says  Larry,  '  That's  all  in  my  eye  ; 

And  first  by  the  clargy  invented, 
To  get  a  fat  bit  for  themselves.' 

*  I'm  sorry,  dear  Larry,'  says  I, 

'  To  see  you  in  this  situation  ; 
And,  blister  my  limbs  if  I  lie, 

I'd  as  lieve  it  had  been  my  own  station.' 
4  Ochone  !  it's  all  over,'  says  he, 

'  For  the  neckcloth  I'll  be  forced  to  put  on, 


STREET  BALLADS 


And  by  this  time  to-morrow  you'll  see 
Your  poor  Larry  as  dead  as  a  mutton, 
Because,  why,  his  courage  was  good. 

'  And  I'll  be  cut  up  like  a  pie, 

And  my  nob  from  my  body  be  parted.' 
'  You're  in  the  wrong  box,  then,'  says  I, 

'  For  blast  me  if  they're  so  hard-hearted  : 
A  chalk  on  the  back  of  your  neck 

Is  all  that  Jack  Ketch  dares  to  give  you  ; 
Then  mind  not  such  trifles  a  feck, 

For  why  should  the  likes  of  them  grieve  you  ? 
And  now,  boys,  come  tip  us  the  deck.' 

The  cards  being  called  for,  they  played, 
Till  Larry  found  one  of  them  cheated  ; 

A  dart  at  his  napper  he  made 
(The  boy  being  easily  heated)  : 

*  Oh,  by  the  hokey,  you  thief, 

I'll  scuttle  your  nob  with  my  daddle  ! 
You  cheat  me  because  I'm  in  grief, 
But  soon  I'll  demolish  your  noddle, 
And  leave  you  your  claret  to  drink.' 

Then  the  clergy  came  in  with  his  book, 

He  spoke  him  so  smooth  and  so  civil ; 
Larry  tipped  him  a  Kilmainham  look, 

And  pitched  his  big  wig  to  the  devil  ; 
Then  sighing,  he  threw  back  his  head 

To  get  a  sweet  drop  of  the  bottle, 
And  pitiful  sighing,  he  said  : 

'  Oh,  the  hemp  will  be  soon  round  my  throttle 
And  choke  my  poor  windpipe  to  death. 

*  Though  sure  it's  the  best  way  to  die, 

Oh,  the  devil  a  better  a-livin'  ! 
For,  sure,  when  the  gallows  is  high 

Your  journey  is  shorter  to  Heaven  : 
But  what  harasses  Larry  the  most, 

And  makes  his  poor  soul  melancholy, 


io  BOOK  I 


Is  to  think  of  the  time  when  his  ghost 
Will  come  in  a  sheet  to  sweet  Molly — 
Oh,  sure  it  will  kill  her  alive  ! ' 

So  moving  these  last  words  he  spoke, 

We  all  vented  our  tears  in  a  shower  ; 
For  my  part,  I  thought  my  heart  broke, 

To  see  him  cut  down  like  a  flower. 
On  his  travels  we  watched  him  next  day  ; 

Oh,  the  throttler  !  I  thought  I  could  kill  him  ; 
But  Larry  not  one  word  did  say, 

Nor  changed  till  he  come  to  *  King  William  ' — 
Then,  musha  !  his  colour  grew  white. 

When  he  came  to  the  nubbling  chit, 

He  was  tucked  up  so  neat  and  so  pretty, 
The  rumbler  jogged  off  from  his  feet, 

And  he  died  with  his  face  to  the  city  ; 
He  kicked,  too — but  that  was  all  pride, 

For  soon  you  might  see  'twas  all  over  ; 
Soon  after  the  noose  was  untied, 

And  at  darky  we  waked  him  in  clover, 
And  sent  him  to  take  a  ground  sweat. 


'JOHNNY,  I  HARDLY  KNEW  YE' 

While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 

While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 
A  stick  in  my  hand  and  a  drop  in  my  eye, 
A  doleful  damsel  I  heard  cry  : 
{  Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums  and  guns,  and  guns  and  drums 

The  enemy  nearly  slew  ye  ; 
My  darling  dear,  you  look  so  queer, 

Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 


STREET  BALLADS  frc.  11 

*  Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild  ? 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild? 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 

Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild, 
When  my  poor  heart  you  first  beguiled  ? 
Why  did  you  run  from  me  and  the  child  ? 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums,  &c. 

'  Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run  ? 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run  ? 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 

Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run 
When  you  went  to  carry  a  gun  ? 
Indeed,  your  dancing  days  are  done  ! 
Och,  Johnny,  1  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums,  &c. 

*  It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 

It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 
Though  from  my  heart  you  took  leg-bail  ; 
Like  a  cod  you're  doubled  up  head  and  tail. 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums,  &c. 

'  You  haven't  an  arm  and  you  haven't  a  leg, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
You  haven't  an  arm  and  you  haven't  a  leg, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 

You  haven't  an  arm  and  you  haven't  a  leg, 
You're  an  eyeless,  noseless,  chickenless  egg  ; 
You'll  have  to  be  put  wid  a  bowl  to  beg  : 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums,  &c. 


12  BOOK  I 


1  I'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
I'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 

•  I'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 

All  from  the  island  of  Sulloon,1 
So  low  in  flesh,  so  high  in  bone  ; 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums,  &c. 

'  But  sad  as  it  is  to  see  you  so, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
But  sad  as  it  is  to  see  you  so, 

Hurroo  !  hurroo  ! 
But  sad  as  it  is  to  see  you  so, 
And  to  think  of  you  now  as  an  object  of  woe, 
Your  Peggy  '11  still  keep  ye  on  as  her  beau  ; 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

With  drums  and  guns,  and  guns  and  drums, 

The  enemy  nearly  slew  ye  ; 
,  My  darling  dear,  you  look  so  queer, 

Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

THE  CRUISKEEN  LAWN 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  jovial,  sly,  rollicking  and  altogether 
irresistible  bacchanalian  song  than  the  immortal  '  Cruiskeen  Lawn.1  The 
English  words  and  the  Irish  blend  together  most  happily.  The  chorus  is  pro- 
nounced something  like 

Grd-ma-chree  ma  crooskeen, 

Shldntya  gal  ma-voorneen 

' S  grd-ma-chree  a  cooleen  ban,  &c. 

a  being  pronounced  as  in  '  shawl.'     The  meaning  is  : 

Love  of  my  heart,  my  little  jug  ! 

Bright  health  to  my  darling  ! 

The  love  of  my  heart  is  her  fair  hair,  &c. 

The  origin  of  the  poem  is  lost  in  obscurity.  It  probably  sprang  up,  in  its 
present  form,  in  the  convivial  circles  of  eighteenth-century  Ireland,  and  no 
doubt  has  a  reminiscence  of  some  Gaelic  original.  Ldn  =  full. 

1  Ceylon. 


STREET  BALLADS  &*c.  13 

LET  the  farmer  praise  his  grounds, 
Let  the  huntsman  praise  his  hounds, 

The  shepherd  his  dew-scented  lawn  ; 
But  I,  more  blest  than  they, 
Spend  each  happy  night  and  day 

With  my  charming  little  cruiscin  Ian,  Ian,  Ian, 

My  charming  little  cruiscin  Ian. 

Grddh  mo  chroidhe  mo  cruiscin, — 
Sldinte  geal  mo  mhuirnin. 

Is  grddh  mo  chroidhe  a  cuilin  bdn. 
Grddh  mo  chroidhe  mo  cruiscin,  — 
Sldinte  geal  mo  mhuirnin, 

Is  grddh  mo  chroidhe  a  cuilin  bdn,  bdn,  bdn, 

Is  grddh  mo  chroidhe  a  cuilin  bdn. 

Immortal  and  divine, 
Great  Bacchus,  god  of  wine, 

Create  me  by  adoption  your  son  ; 
In  hope  that  you'll  comply, 
My  glass  shall  ne'er  run  dry, 

Nor  my  smiling  little  cruiscin  Idn,  Idn,  Idn, 

My  smiling  little  cruiscin  Idn. 

And  when  grim  Death  appears, 
In  a  few  but  pleasant  years, 

To  tell  me  that  my  glass  has  run  ; 
I'll  say,  Begone,  you  knave, 
For  bold  Bacchus  gave  me  lave 

To  take  another  cruiscin  Ian,  Ian,  Idn, 

Another  little  cruiscfn  Ian. 

Then  fill  your  glasses  high, 
Let's  not  part  with  lips  adry, 

Though  the  lark  now  proclaims  it  is  dawn  ; 
And  since  we  can't  remain, 
May  we  shortly  meet  again, 

To  fill  another  cruiscin  Idn,  Ian,  Idn, 

To  fill  another  cruiscin  Ian. 


14  BOOK  I 


SHULE  AROON 

A    BRIGADE    BALLAD 

The  date  of  this  ballad  is  not  positively  known,  but  it  appears  to  be  early 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  when  the  flower  of  the  Catholic  youth  of  Ireland 
were  drawn  away  to  recruit  the  ranks  of  the  Brigade.  The  inexpressible 
tenderness  of  the  air,  and  the  deep  feeling  and  simplicity  of  the  words,  have 
made  the  ballad  a  popular  favourite,  notwithstanding  its  meagreness  and 
poverty. — Note  by  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

I  WOULD  I  were  on  yonder  hill, 

JTis  there  I'd  sit  and  cry  my  fill, 

And  every  tear  would  turn  a  mill, 

Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  riiin  ! 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  doras  agus  eulaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  /  l 

I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel, 

I'll  sell  my  only  spinning-wheel, 

To  buy  for  my  love  a  sword  of  steel, 

Is  go  d-teidh  tu*  a  mhurnin,  sldn  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  / 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  sitibhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  doras  agus  eulaigh  liom^ 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  / 

I'll  dye  my  petticoats,  I'll  dye  them  red, 

And  round  the  world  I'll  beg  my  bread, 

Until  my  parents  shall  wish  me  dead, 

Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  / 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  / 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  doras  agus  eulaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn! 


1  In  Mr.  Halliday  Sparling's  IRISH  MINSTRELSY  Dr.  Sigerson  versifies 
this  chorus  gracefully,  and  almost  literally,  as  follows  : 
'  Come,  come,  come,  O  Love  ! 
Quickly  come  to  me,  softly  move  ; 
Come  to  the  door,  and  away  we'll  flee, 
And  safe  for  aye  may  my  darling  be  ! ' 


STREET  BALLADS 


I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish  in  vain, 

I  wish  I  had  my  heart  again, 

And  vainly  think  I'd  not  complain, 

Js  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  / 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  ! 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  doras  agus  eulaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  ! 

But  now  my  love  has  gone  to  France, 

To  try  his  fortune  to  advance  ; 

If  he  e'er  come  back,  'tis  but  a  chance, 

Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhiirnin,  sldn  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  ! 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  doras  agus  eulaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  sldn  ! 


IRISH  MOLLY  O 

A   STREET-BALLAD 

Like  '  Shule  Aroon,'  this  ballad  has  been  largely  kept  alive  by  virtue  of  the 
beautiful  and  pathetic  air  to  which  it  is  sung. 

OH  !  who  is  that  poor  foreigner  that  lately  came  to  town, 
And  like  a  ghost  that  cannot  rest  still  wanders  up  and  down  ? 
A  poor,  unhappy  Scottish  youth  ;— if  more  you  wish  to  know, 
His  heart  is  breaking  all  for  love  of  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

She's  modest,  mild,  and  beautiful,  the  fairest  I  have  known — 
The  primrose  of  Ireland— all  blooming  here  alone  — 
The  primrose  of  Ireland,  for  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
The  only  one  entices  me  is  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

When  Molly's  father  heard  of  it,  a  solemn  oath  he  swore, 
That  if  she'd  wed  a  foreigner  he'd  never  see  her  more. 
He  sent  for  young  MacDonald  and  he  plainly  told  him  so  — 
*  I'll  never  give  to  such  as  you  my  Irish  Molly  O  ! ' 

She's  modest,  &c. 


16  BOOK  I 


MacDonald  heard  the  heavy  news — and  grievously  did  say — 

*  Farewell,  my  lovely  Molly,  since  I'm  banished  far  away, 
A  poor  forlorn  pilgrim  I  must  wander  to  and  fro, 

And  all  for  the  sake  of  my  Irish  Molly  O  ! ' 

She's  modest,  &c. 

*  There  is  a  rose  in  Ireland,  I  thought  it  would  be  mine  : 
But  now  that  she  is  lost  to  me,  I  must  for  ever  pine, 

Till  death  shall  come  to  comfort  me,  for  to  the  grave  I'll  go, 
And  all  for  the  sake  of  my  Irish  Molly  O  !' 

She's  modest,  &c. 

'And  now  that  I  am  dying,  this  one  request  I  crave, 
To  place  a  marble  tombstone  above  my  humble  grave  ! 
And  on  the  stone  these  simple  words  I'd  have  engraven  so — 
"  MacDonald  lost  his  life  for  love  of  Irish  Molly  O  !  "' 

She's  modest,  &c. 


THE  MAID  OF  CLOGHROE 

Air  :  'Cailin  deas  cruithi-na-mbo.' 

(The  Pretty  Girl  milking  the  Cows. ) 

As  I  roved  out,  at  Faha,  one  morning, 

Where  Adrum's  tall  groves  were  in  view — 
When  Sol's  lucid  beams  were  adorning, 

And  the  meadows  were  spangled  with  dew — 
Reflecting,  in  deep  contemplation, 

On  the  state  of  my  country  kept  low, 
I  perceived  a  fair  juvenile  female 

On  the  side  of  the  hill  of  Cloghroe. 

Her  form  resembled  fair  Venus, 

That  amorous  Cyprian  queen  ; 
She's  the  charming  young  sapling  of  Erin, 

As  she  gracefully  trips  on  the  green  ; 
She's  tall,  and  her  form  is  graceful, 

Her  features  are  killing  also  ; 
She's  a  charming,  accomplished  young  maiden, 

This  beautiful  dame  of  Cloghroe. 


STREET  BALLADS  frc.  17 

Fair  Juno,  Minerva,  or  Helen, 

Could  not  vie  with  this  juvenile  dame  ; 
Hibernian  swains  are  bewailing, 

And  anxious  to  know  her  dear  name. 
She's  tender,  she's  tall,  and  she's  stately, 

Her  complexion  much  whiter  than  snow  ; 
She  outrivals  all  maidens  completely, 

This  lovely  young  maid  of  Cloghroe. 

At  Coachfort,  at  Dripsey,  and  Blarney 

This  lovely  young  maid  is  admired  ; 
The  bucks,  at  the  Lakes  of  Killarney, 

With  the  fame  of  her  beauty  are  fired. 
Her  image,  I  think,  is  before  me, 

And  present  wherever  I  go  ; 
Sweet,  charming  young  maid,  I  adore  thee, 

Thou  beautiful  nymph  of  Cloghroe. 

Now  aid  me,  ye  country  grammarians  ! 

Your  learned  assistance  I  claim, 
To  know  the  bright  name  of  this  fair  one — 

This  charming  young  damsel  of  fame. 
Two  mutes  and  a  liquid  united, 

Ingeniously  placed  in  a  row, 
Spell  part  of  the  name  of  this  phoenix, 

The  beautiful  maid  of  Cloghroe. 

A  diphthong  and  three  semivowels 

Will  give  us  this  cynosure's  name — 
This  charming  Hibernian  beauty, 

This  lovely,  this  virtuous  young  dame. 
Had  Jupiter  heard  of  this  fair  one, 

He'd  descend  from  Olympus,  I  know, 
To  solicit  this  juvenile  phoenix  — 

This  beautiful  maid  of  Cloghroe. 


18  BOOK  I 


JENNY  FROM  BALLINASLOE 

This  reads  remarkably  like  a  conscious  burlesque  on  the  hedge  school- 
master's style  of  love  poem. 

You  lads  that  are  funny,  and  call  maids  your  honey, 

Give  ear  for  a  moment  ;  ['11  not  keep  you  long. 
I'm  wounded  by  Cupid  ;  he  has  made  me  stupid  ; 

To  tell  you  the  truth  now,  my  brain's  nearly  wrong. 
A  neat  little  posy,  who  does  live  quite  cosy, 

Has  kept  me  unable  to  go  to  and  fro  ; 
Each  day  I'm  declining,  in  love  I'm  repining, 

For  nice  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe. 

It  was  in  September,  I'll  ever  remember, 

I  went  out  to  walk  by  a  clear  river  side 
For  sweet  recreation,  but,  to  my  vexation, 

This  wonder  of  Nature  I  quickly  espied  ; 
I  stood  for  to  view  her  an  hour,  I'm  sure  : 

The  earth  could  not  show  such  a  damsel,  I  know, 
As  that  little  girl,  the  pride  of  the  world, 

Called  nice  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe. 

I  said  to  her  :  '  Darling  \  this  is  a  nice  morning ; 

The  birds  sing  enchanting,  which  charms  the  groves  ; 
Their  notes  do  delight  me,  and  you  do  invite  me, 

Along  this  clear  water  some  time  for  to  rove. 
Your  beauty  has  won  me,  and  surely  undone  me  ; 

If  you  won't  agree  for  to  cure  my  sad  woe, 
So  great  is  my  sorrow,  I'll  ne'er  see  to-morrow, 

My  sweet  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe.' 

*  Sir,  I  did  not  invite  you,  nor  yet  dare  not  slight  you  ; 

You're  at  your  own  option  to  act  as  you  please  : 
I  am  not  ambitious,  nor  e'er  was  officious  ; 

I  am  never  inclined  to  disdain  or  to  tease. 
I  love  conversation,  likewise  recreation  ; 

I'm  free  with  a  friend,  and  I'm  cold  with  a  foe  ; 
But  virtue's  my  glory,  and  will  be  till  I'm  hoary,' 

Said  nice  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe. 


STREET  BALLADS  frc.  19 

'  Most  lovely  of  creatures  !  your  beautiful  features 

Have  sorely  attracted  and  captured  my  heart ; 
If  you  won't  relieve  me,  in  truth  you  may  b'lieve  me, 

Bewildered  in  sorrow  till  death  I  must  smart ; 
Pm  at  your  election,  so  grant  me  protection, 

And  feel  for  a  creature  that's  tortured  in  woe. 
One  smile  it  will  heal  me  ;  one  frown  it  will  kill  me  ; 

Sweet,  nice  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe  ! ' 

*  Sir,  yonder's  my  lover  ;  if  he  should  discover 

Or  ever  take  notice  you  spoke  unto  me, 
He'd  close  your  existence  in  spite  of  resistance  ; 

Be  pleased  to  withdraw,  then,  lest  he  might  you  see. 
You  see,  he's  approaching  ;  then  don't  be  encroaching 

He  has  his  large  dog  and  his  gun  there  also. 
Although  you're  a  stranger,  I  wish  you  from  danger, 

Said  nice  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe. 

I  bowed  then  genteelly,  and  thanked  her  quite  freely  ; 

I  bid  her  adieu,  and  took  to  the  road  ; 
So  great  was  my  trouble  my  pace  I  did  double  ; 

My  heart  was  oppressed  and  sank  down  with  the  load. 
For  ever  I'll  mourn  for  beauteous  Jane  Curran, 

And  ramble  about  in  affection  and  woe, 
And  think  on  the  hour  I  saw  that  sweet  flower, 

My  dear  little  Jenny  from  Ballinasloe  !          * 


THE  BOYNE  WATER 

Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  rightly  observes  that  these  fragments  of  the 
original  '  Boyne  Water  '  are  far  more  racy  and  spirited  than  the  song  by 
Colonel  Blacker  which  has  superseded  them. 

July  the  First,  of  a  morning  clear,  one  thousand  six  hundred  and 

ninety, 

King  William  did  his  men  prepare — of  thousands  he  had  thirty — 
To  fight  King  James  and  all  his  foes,  encamped  near  the  Boyne 

Water  ; 

He  little  fear'd,  though  two  to  one,  their  multitudes  to  scatter. 

c  2 


20  BOOK  I 


King  William  call'd  his  officers,  saying  :  '  Gentlemen,  mind  your 

station. 

And  let  your  valour  here  be  shown  before  this  Irish  nation  ; 
My  brazen  walls  let  no  man  break,  and  your  subtle  foes  you'll 

scatter, 
Be  sure  you  show  them  good  English  play  as  you  go  over  the 

water.' 

Both  foot  and  horse  they  marched  on,  intending  them  to  batter, 
But  the  brave  Duke  Schomberg  he  was  shot  as  he  crossed  over 

the  water. 
When  that  King  William  did  observe  the  brave  Duke  Schomberg 

falling, 
He  rein'd  his   horse  with    a  heavy  heart,  on  the   Enniskilleners 

calling  : 

'  What  will  you  do  for  me,  brave  boys — see  yonder  men  retreating  ? 
Our  enemies  encourag'd  are,  and  English  drums  are  beating.' 
He  says,  '  My  boys,  feel  no  dismay  at   the   losing   of  one  com- 
mander, 
For  God  shall  be  our  king  this  day,  and  I'll  be  general  under." 

Within  four  yards  of  our  fore-front,  before  a  shot  was  fired, 
A  sudden  snuff  they  got  that  day,  which  little  they  desired  ; 
For  horse  and  man  fell  to  the  ground,  and  some  hung  in  their 

saddle : 
Others  turn'd  up  their  forked  ends,  which  we  call  coup  de  ladle. 

Prince  Eugene's  regiment  was  the  next,  on  our  right  hand  ad- 
vanced, 

Into  a  field  of  standing  wheat,  where  Irish  horses  pranced — 
But  the  brandy  ran  so  in  their  heads,  their  senses  all  did  scatter, 
They  little  thought  to  leave  their  bones  that  day  at  the  Boyne 
Water. 

Both  men  and  horse  lay  on  the  ground,  and   many  there  lay 

bleeding, 

I   saw  no   sickles   there   that  day — but,   sure,   there   was   sharp 

shearing. 


STREET  BALLADS  frc.  i\ 


Now,  praise  God,  all  true  Protestants,  and  heaven's  and  earth's 

Creator, 

For  the  deliverance  that  He  sent  our  enemies  to  scatter. 
The  Church's  foes  will  pine  away,  like  churlish-hearted  Nabal 
For  our  deliverer  came  this  day  like  the  great  Zorobabel. 

So  praise  God,  all  true  Protestants,  and  I  will  say  no  further, 
But  had  the  Papists  gain'd  the  day,  there  would  have  been  open 

j    murder. 

Although   King  James  and  many  more  were  ne'er  that  way  in- 
clined, 
It  was  not  in  their  power  to  stop  what  the  rabble  they  designed. 

BY  MEMORY  INSPIRED 

Said  to  have  been  composed  by  J.  Kearney,  a  Dublin  street-singer,  but 
believed  by  Mr.  D.  J.  O  Donoghue  to  have  been  merely  popularised  by  him. 
tt  is  a  fair  example  of  the  modern  street-ballad. 

BY  memory  inspired 

And  love  of  country  fired, 
The  deeds  of  MEN  I  love  to  dwell  upon  ; 

And  the  patriotic  glow 

Of  my  Spirit  must  bestow 

A  tribute  to  O'Connell  that  is  gone,  boys-  gone. 
Here's  a  memory  to  the  friends  that  are  gone  ! 

In  October  'Ninety-Seven — 

May  his  soul  find  rest  in  Heaven  ! — 
William  Orr  to  execution  was  led  on  : 

The  jury,  drunk,  agreed 

That  IRISH  was  his  creed  : 

For  perjury  and  threats  drove  them  on,  boys — on. 
Here's  the  memory  of  John  Mitchel  that  is  gone  ! 

In  'Ninety-Eight — the  month  July — 

The  informer's  pay  was  high  ; 
When  Reynolds  gave  the  gallows  brave  MacCann  ; 

But  MacCann  was  Reynolds'  first  — 

One  could  not  allay  his  thirst  ; 

So  he  brought  up  Bond  and  Byrne  that  are  gone,  boys— gone. 
Here's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone  ! 


22  BOOK  1 


We  saw  a  nation's  tears 

Shed  for  John  and  Henry  Shears  ; 
Betrayed  by  Judas,  Captain  Armstrong  ; 

We  may  forgive,  but  yet 

We  never  can  forget 

The  poisoning  of  Maguire  '  that  is  gone,  boys — gone  : 
Our  high  Star  and  true  Apostle  that  is  gone  ! 

How  did  Lord  Edward  die  ? 

Like  a  man,  without  a  sigh  ! 
But  he  left  his  handiwork  on  Major  Swan  ! 

But  Sirr?  with  steel-clad  breast 

And  coward  heart  at  best, 
Left  us  cause  to  mourn  Lord  Edward  that  is  gone,  boys- 

gone. 
Here's  the  memory  of  our  friends  that  are  gone  ! 

September,  Eighteen-Three, 

Closed  this  cruel  history, 
When  Emmet's  blood  the  scaffold  flowed  upon. 

Oh,  had  their  spirits  been  wise, 

They  might  then  realise 

Their  freedom — but  we  drink  to  Mitchel  that  is  gone,  boys- 
gone. 
Here's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone  ! 


THE  SHAN  VAN  VOCHT 

One  of  the  most  popular  of  Irish  street-ballads.  Written  in  1796,-when  the 
French  fleet  arrived  in  Bantry  Bay.  The  'Shan  Van  Vocht'  (Sean  Bhean 
Bhocht)  means  '  The  Poor  Old  Woman  '—a  name  for  Ireland. 

OH  !  the  French  are  on  the  sea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
The  French  are  on  the  sea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 

1  Father  Tom  Maguire,  the  well-known  Catholic  controversialist,  who 
with  other  members  of  his  family  was  poisoned,  it  was  alleged,  by  his 
housekeeper,  1847. 


STREET  BALLADS 


Oh  !  the  French  are  in  the  Bay, 
They'll  be  here  without  delay, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Oh  !  the  French  are  in  the  Bay, 
They'll  be  here  by  break  of  day, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ; 
Where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
On  the  Curragh  of  Kildare, 
The  boys  they  will  be  there, 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

To  the  Curragh  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  will  repair, 
And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ; 
What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they'll  be  true 

To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ? 

What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  theyTI  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ? 

And  what  colour  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  colour  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 


24  BOOK  I 


What  colour  should  be  seen 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  their  own  immortal  Green  ? 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

What  colour  should  be  seen 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  their  own  immortal  Green  ? 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ; 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ; 
Yes  !  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea  ; 
Then  hurrah  for  Liberty  ! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Yes  !  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea  ; 
Then  hurrah  for  Liberty  ! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


BOOK    II 

WILLIAM   DRENNAN 

THIS  writer,  the  best  of  the  poets  of  the  1798  Rebellion,  was 
born  in  Belfast  on  May  23,  1754,  and  died  on  February  5,  1820. 
He  was  one  of  the  strongest  supporters  of  the  Society  of 
United  Irishmen,  whose  original  manifesto  he  wrote.  In  1794 
he  was  tried  for  sedition,  but  was  acquitted.  His  verses,  which 
are  very  few  in  number,  are  perhaps  rhetoric  rather  than 
poetry,  but  the  rhetoric  is  always  strong  and  sincere.  Most  of 
them,  apart  from  the  national  lyrics,  appeared  first  in  Joshua 
Edkin's  COLLECTION  OF  POEMS,  Dublin  1801  (restricted  to 
Irish  writers).  He  published  FUGITIVE  PIECES  in  Belfast, 
1815,  and  a  translation  of  'The  Electra'  of  Sophocles  in  1817. 
He  took  particular  pride  in  the  fact  of  having  invented  the 
phrase  '  Emerald  Isle,'  which  occurs  in  a  song  highly  extolled  by 
Moore,  but  hardly  deserving  of  his  extravagant  eulogy.  His 
best  piece  is  unquestionably  'The  Wake  of  William  Orr,' 
commemorating  the  execution  of  a  respectable  Ulster  farmer 
who  was  convicted  on  perjured  evidence,  and  whose  name  has 
never  been  forgotten  in  Ireland.  The  toast  '  Remember  Orr ' 
was  for  some  years  one  of  the  watchwords  of  the  aristocratic 
Whig  party  in^England.  D>  j.  Q'DoNOGHUE. 

ERIN 

WHEN  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood 
God  bless' d  the  green  Island,  and  saw  it  was  good  ; 
The  em'rald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone — 
In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious  stone. 


26  BOOK  II 


In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blest, 
With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West, 
Erin  stands  proudly  insular  on  her  steep  shore, 
And  strikes  her  high  harp  'mid  the  ocean's  deep  roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to  weep, 
The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the  deep  ; 
At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from  her  eyes, 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom  rise. 
Oh  !  sons  of  green  Erin,  lament  o'er  the  time 
When  religion  was  war  and  our  country  a  crime  ; 
When  man  in  God's  image  inverted  His  plan, 
And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man  ; 

When  the  int'rest  of  State  wrought  the  general  woe, 
The  stranger  a  friend  and  the  native  a  foe  • 
While  the  mother  rejoiced  o'er  her  children  oppressed, 
And  clasp'd  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast ; 
When  with  Pale  for  the  body  and  Pale  for  the  soul, 
Church  and  State  joined  in  compact  to  conquer  the  whole 
And  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian  blood, 
Ey'd  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it  was  good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers'  grave 
For  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the  slave, 
Drive  the  demon  of  Bigotry  home  to  his  den, 
And  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Erin  make  men. 
Let  my  sons,  like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock,  unite — 
A  partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right  ; 
Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas  !  for  poor  Erin  that  some  are  still  seen 

Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to  Green  : 

Yet,  oh  !  when  you're  up  and  they're  down,  let  them  live, 

Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would  not  give. 

Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong  !  but  be  gentle  as  brave  ! 

And,  uplifted  to  strike,  be  as  ready  to  save ! 

Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 

The  cause  or  the  men  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN  27 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true, 
And  the  Green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and  Blue ! 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall  share 
With  the  full  swelling  chest  and  the  fair  flowing  hair. 
Their  bosom  heaves  high  for  the  worthy  and  brave, 
But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  soft-swelling  wave. 
Men  of  Erin  !  awake,  and  make  haste  to  be  blest ! 
Rise,  Arch  of  the  Ocean  and  Queen  of  the  West  ! 


THE  WAKE  OF  WILLIAM  ORR 

THERE  our  murdered  brother  lies  ; 
Wake  him  not  with  woman's  cries  ; 
Mourn  the  way  that  manhood  ought — 
Sit  in  silent  trance  of  thought. 

Write  his  merits  on  your  mind  ; 
Morals  pure  and  manners  kind  ; 
In  his  head,  as  on  a  hill, 
Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 

Why  cut  off  in  palmy  youth  ? 
Truth  he  spoke,  and  acted  truth. 
'  Countrymen,  UNITE,'  he  cried, 
And  died  for  what  our  Saviour  died. 

God  of  peace  and  God  of  love  ! 
Let  it  not  Thy  vengeance  move — 
Let  it  not  Thy  lightnings  draw — 
A  nation  guillotined  by  law. 

Hapless  Nation,  rent  and  torn, 
Thou  wert  early  taught  to  mourn  ; 
Warfare  of  six  hundred  years  ! 
Epochs  marked  with  blood  and  tears  ! 

Hunted  thro'  thy  native  grounds, 
Or  flung  reward  to  human  hounds, 
Each  one  pulled  and  tore  his  share, 
Heedless  of  thy  deep  despair. 


28  BOOK  II 


Hapless  Nation  !  hapless  Land  ! 
Heap  of  uncementing  sand  ! 
Crumbled  by  a  foreign  weight  : 
And  by  worse,  domestic  hate. 

God  of  mercy  !  God  of  peace  ! 
Make  this  mad  confusion  cease  ; 
O'er  the  mental  chaos  move, 
Through  it  SPEAK  the  light  of  love. 

Monstrous  and  unhappy  sight  ! 
Brothers'  blood  will  not  unite  ; 
Holy  oil  and  holy  water 
Mix,  and  fill  the  world  with  slaughter. 

Who  is  she  with  aspect  wild  ? 
The  widow'd  mother  with  her  child — 
Child  new  stirring  in  the  womb  ! 
Husband  waiting  for  the  tomb  ! 

Angel  of  this  sacred  place, 
Calm  her  soul  and  whisper  peace — 
Cord,  or  axe,  or  guillotine, 
Make  the  sentence — not  the  sin. 

Here  we  watch  our  brother's  sleep  : 
Watch  with  us,  but  do  not  weep  : 
Watch  with  us  thro'  dead  of  night — 
But  expect  the  morning  light. 


MY  FATHER 

WHO  took  me  from  my  mother's  arms, 

And,  smiling  at  her  soft  alarms, 

Showed  me  the  world  and  Nature's  charms  ? 

Who  made  me  feel  and  understand 

The  wonders  of  the  sea  and  land, 

And  mark  through  all  the  Maker's  hand  ? 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN  29 

Who  climbed  with  me  the  mountain's  height, 
And  watched  my  look  of  dread  delight, 
While  rose  the  glorious  orb  of  light  ? 

Who  from  each  flower  and  verdant  stalk 
Gathered  a  honey'd  store  of  talk, 
And  filled  the  long,  delightful  walk  ? 

Not  on  an  insect  would  he  tread, 
Nor  strike  the  stinging  nettle  dead — 
Who  taught,  at  once,  my  heart  and  head  ? 

Who  fired  my  breast  with  Homer's  fame, 
And  taught  the  high  heroic  theme 
That  nightly  flashed  upon  my  dream  ? 

Who  smiled  at  my  supreme  desire 
To  see  the  curling  smoke  aspire 
From  Ithaca's  domestic  fire? 

Who,  with  Ulysses,  saw  me  roam, 
High  on  the  raft,  amidst  the  foam, 
His  head  upraised  to  look  for  home  ? 

'  What  made  a  barren  rock  so  dear  ? ' 
'  My  boy,  he  had  a  country  there  ! ' 
And  who  then  dropped  a  precious  tear  ? 

WTho  now  in  pale  and  placid  light 
Of  memory  gleams  upon  my  sight, 
Bursting  the  sepulchre  of  night  ? 

Oh  \  teach  me  still  thy  Christian  plan, 
For  practice  with  thy  precept  ran, 
Nor  yet  desert  me,  now  a  man. 

Still  let  thy  scholar's  heart  rejoice 
With  charm  of  thy  angelic  voice  ; 
Still  prompt  the  motive  and  the  choice — 

For  yet  remains  a  little  space 
Till  I  shall  meet  thee  face  to  face, 
And  not,  as  now,  in  vain  embrace. 


30  BOOK  II 


JOHN   PHILPOT   CURRAN 

THE  famous  wit  and  orator  was  born  at  Newmarket,  County 
Cork,  July  24,  1750,  and  died  in  London  on  October  14, 
1817.  He  wrote  few  poems,  and  the  following  sombre  lament, 
with  its  cry  like  that  of  the  wind  in  a  ruined  house,-  is  by  far 
the  best  of  them.  It  was  founded  on  a  chance  encounter  and 
conversation  with  a  deserting  soldier  whom  he  met  on  a 
journey. 

THE  DESERTER'S  MEDITATION 

IF  sadly  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking, 

Could  more  than  drinking  my  cares  compose, 
A  cure  for  sorrow  from  sighs  I'd  borrow, 

And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes. 
But  as  in  wailing  there's  nought  availing, 

And  Death  unfailing  will  strike  the  blow, 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a  season, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go. 

To  joy  a  stranger,  a  way-worn  ranger, 

In  every  danger  my  course  I've  run  ; 
Now  hope  all  ending,  and  death  befriending 

His  last  aid  lending,  my  cares  are  done. 
No  more  a  rover,  or  hapless  lover, 

My  griefs  are  over — my  glass  runs  low  ; 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a  season, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

THE  great  Irish  wit,  orator  and  dramatist  was  born  in  Dublin, 
1751;  a  son  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  an  actor.  After  a  stormy  life, 
much  of  which  belongs  to  English  literature  and  much  to 
English  history,  he  died  in  1816,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN  31 

Abbey.  The  following  graceful  lyric,  'Dry  be  that  Tear/ 
illustrates  the  well-known  love  of  intricate  verbal  melody,  and 
the  taste  for  cunning  devices  of  chiming  sound  which  mark 
Gaelic  poetry,  and  which  frequently  appear  in  Anglo-Irish  verse. 

DRY  BE  THAT  TEAR 

DRY  be  that  tear,  my  gentlest  love, 

Be  hushed  that  struggling  sigh  ; 
Nor  seasons,  day,  nor  fate  shall  prove, 

More  fixed,  more  true,  than  I. 
Hushed  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear ; 

Cease,  boding  doubt ;  cease,  anxious  fear — 
Dry  be  that  tear. 

Ask'st  thou  how  long  my  love  shall  stay, 

When  all  that's  new  is  past  ? 
How  long  ?     Ah  !  Delia,  can  I  say, 

How  long  my  life  shall  last  ? 
Dry  be  that  tear,  be  hushed  that  sigh  ; 

At  least  I'll  love  thee  till  I  die— 

Hushed  be  that  sigh. 

And  does  that  thought  affect  thee,  too, 
•  The  thought  of  Sylvio's  death, 

*  That  he,  who  only  breathed  for  you, 

Must  yield  that  faithful  breath  ? 
Hushed  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 
Nor  let  us  lose  our  heaven  here  — 

Dry  be  that  tear. 

SONG 
HAD  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

I  ne'er  could  injure  you  ; 
For,  tho'  your  tongue  no  promise  claimed, 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true  ; 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong, 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  lovers  in  the  young. 


32  BOOK  II 


But  when  they  find  that  you  have  blessed 

Another  with  your  heart, 
They'll  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong, 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  brothers  in  the  young. 


GEORGE  NUGENT  REYNOLDS 

BORN  at  Letterfyan,  County  Leitrim,  about  1770  ;  the  son  of 
a  landowner  in  that  county.  He  wrote  numerous  songs  and 
poems  for  the  Dublin  magazines  between  1792-95  ;  published 
a  musical  piece  called  'Baritry  Bay'  in  1797,  which  was 
performed  at  Covent  Garden,  and  a  poem  in  four  cantos  in 
1791.  The  following  is  his  best  song.  Several  pieces  have 
been  attributed  to  him  which  he  did  not  write.  He  died  at 
Stowe,  in  Buckinghamshire,  in  1802. 

• 
KATHLEEN  O'MORE 

MY  love,  still  I  think  that  I  see  her  once  more, 
But  alas  !  she  has  left  me  her  loss  to  deplore, 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More  ! 

Her  hair  glossy  black,  her  eyes  were  dark  blue, 
Her  colour  s.till  changing,  her  smiles  ever  new — 
So  pretty  was  Kathleen,  my  sweet  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More  ! 

She  milked  the  dun  cow  that  ne'er  offered  to  stir  ;  t 
Though  wicked  to  all,  it  was  gentle  to  her — 

So  kind  was  my  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More  ! 


GEORGE  NUGENT  REYNOLDS  33 

She  sat  at  the  door  one  cold  afternoon, 
To  hear  the  wind  blow  and  to  gaze  on  the  moon — 
So  pensive  was  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More  ! 

Cold  was  the  night-breeze  that  sighed  round  her  bower  ; 
It  chilled  my  poor  Kathleen  ;  she  drooped  from  that  hour, 
And  I  lost  my  poor  Kathleen,  my  own  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More  ! 

The  ,bird  of  all  birds  that  I  love  the  best 
Is  the  robin  that  in  the  churchyard  builds  its  nest  ; 
For  he  seems  to  watch  Kathleen,  hops  lightly  o'er  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More  ! 


ANONYMOUS 
KITTY  OF  CoLERAiNE1 

Often  wrongly  attributed  to  Lysaght. 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 

With  a  pitcher  of  milk  for  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 
When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  down  tumbled, 

And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  plain. 
*  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  now  ?  'Twas  looking  at  you  now  ! 

I'm  sure  such  a  pitcher  I'll  ne'er  see  again. 
'Twas  the  pride  of  my  dairy.     Oh,  Barney  McCleary, 

You're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine.' 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her 

That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain  ; 
A  kiss  then  I  gave  her,  and  before  I  did  leave  her 

She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she'd  break  it  again. 
'Twas  the  haymaking  season  — I  can't  tell  the  reason — 

Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  'tis  plain  ! 
For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 

The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 


1  Coleraine  is  generally  pronounced  in  Ireland  CoPraine. 

D 


34  BOOK  II 


THOMAS   MOORE 

THOMAS  MOORE  was  born  under  the  gloom  of  the  Penal  Laws. 
His  parents  were  Catholic,  and  he  clung  all  his  life  to  the 
Church  of  his  fathers.  His  patriotism  he  wore  rather  lightly, 
but  not  his  religion.  That  lay  deep,  and  perhaps  the  best  of 
all  his  songs — '  The  Irish  Peasant  to  his  Mistress  ' — records  the 
love  and  honour  he  gave  to  the  martyred  church  of  Ireland. 
He  suffered  from  the  laws  against  Catholics  as  a  boy  and  a 
young  man.  All  avenues  to  distinction,  even  to  education, 
were  closed  against  him.  It  was  not  till  the  Act  of  1793  did 
away  with  the  worst  of  the  remaining  sanctions  of  the  Penal 
Code  that  he  could  even  enter  Trinity  College,  and  he  was 
still  excluded  from  its  honours  and  emoluments.  No  wonder, 
then,  that  he  hailed,  even  as  a  boy,  the  French  Revolution, 
and  seemed  to  see  in  it  the  dawn  of  deliverance  for  himself 
and  his  people.  He  tells,  in  one  of  his  Prefaces,  how  he  was 
taken  by  his  father  in  1792  to  a  dinner  given  in  Dublin  to 
celebrate  that  great  event,  and  how  he  sat  on  the  knee  of  the 
chairman  while  the  toast  went  round — '  May  the  breezes  from 
France  fan  our  Irish  Oak  into  verdure.' 

These  early  experiences  influenced  his  life  and  work  as  a 
poet.  They  made  him,  as  we  should  now  say,  a  Liberal ;  they 
kept  him  a  lover  of  Ireland  even  in  the  midst  of  the  fashionable 
society  which  he  amused,  enjoyed,  and  sometimes  endured; 
they  often  intruded  into  the  brilliant  wit  of  his  political  satires 
a  passionate  intensity  which  surprises  the  reader,  as  when  in  a 
green  grove  full  of  flowers  and  butterflies  a  dark  pine  rises  ; 
and  they  were  at  the  root  of  the  power  of  the  IRISH  MELODIES. 
All  his  life  he  waged  war  against  intolerance  and  oppression, 
and  for  this  he  deserves  our  gratitude.  But  he  carried  out  the 
war  in  his  own  way.  It  was  not  the  way  of  the  martyr,  nor  of 
the  stern  patriot.  The  spirit  of  the  writers  of  the  ballads  of 
the  Nation  was  not  his.  He  was  too  light,  too  gay,  too  social 
a  creature  to  live  or  to  write  in  that  fashion  ;  and  English 


THOMAS  MOORE  35 


Society,  with  flattery  and  good  living,  laid  its  chains  upon  him. 
Had  he  resisted  this  Dalilah,  even  though  he  was  not  a 
Samson,  he  might  have  found  that  grave,  indignant  passion, 
that  steady  sincerity  which  would  have  chastened  his  lightness, 
reduced  his  exuberance,  and  drawn  him  down  into  those  depths 
of  feeling  where  the  unnecessary  in  poetry  is  consumed.  We 
see  what  might  have  been  in  a  song  like  '  At  the  mid  hour  of 
night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly.'  But  he  was  led  away 
from  these  impassioned  regions,  not  only  by  the  flattery  of 
society,  by  the  circumstances  of  the  time  which  forbade  to  an 
Irish  patriot  all  the  means  of  fame,  but  also  by  his  own  nature. 
He  was  one  to  whom  Anacreon  was  dearer  than  Sophocles, 
and  his  translations  of  that  poet  reveal  the  gay,  witty,  pleasure- 
loving  character  of  the  man.  Their  note  remained  an  element 
in  his  poetry  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life.  How  he  could 
wed  some  of  the  spiritual  Irish  music  to  the  bacchanalian 
words  with  which  he  degrades  its  Elfin  mysticism,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that 
these  songs  of  wine  and  women  were  not,  as  poetry,  true.  He 
was  neither  a  frank  convivialist,  nor  much  of  a  wandering 
lover.  Had  he  been  either  one  or  the  other  with  any  force, 
the  poetry  would  have  been  better.  He  only  played  with  these 
subjects,  flitting  over  them  like  a  humming  bird.  Anacreon, 
who  was  really  in  earnest,  loses  his  reality  in  Moore's  transla- 
tions. There  is  not  a  trace  of  true  passion,  sensual  or  otherwise, 
in  the  *  poems  of  Mr.  Little,'  and  the  love  scenes  where  Moore 
tries  to  be  serious  in  LALLA  ROOKH  or  the  LOVES  oV  THE  ANGELS 
resemble  vital  love  as  much  as  the  sugar  wreaths  on  a  wedding- 
cake  resemble  living  flowers.  There  are  tender  passages  in  his 
songs,  of  a  sweet  and  natural  emotion,  but  they  belong  to  the 
friends  and  the  wife  he  loved,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  rest 
of  his  shallow,  brilliant,  and  sometimes  tinsel  poetry.  The  man 
was  thin,  and,  fortunately  for  his  success,  he  did  not  know  it.  On 
the  contrary,  he  believed  himself,  even  though  he  was  modest 
about  it,  to  be  a  poet  of  substantial  power.  Such  a  faith  enabled 
him  to  go  on  writing  thousands  of  verses,  with  loose  fertility,  on 
every  kind  of  subject.  The  society  in  which  he  lived  was  even 

D2 


36  BOOK  II 


more  unreal  than  himself,  and  it  saw  all  that  it  lazily  cared 
for  represented  by  Moore  with  a  dazzling  lightness  and  an 
insincere  sentiment  which  exactly  suited  it.  They  turned, 
amazed  and  frightened  by  Byron's  revolutionary  force,  repelled 
by  Wordsworth's  simplicity,  to  a  poet  who  did  not  disturb 
them  or  indict  their  life,  and  who  adorned  the  hours  of  their 
indifferent  leisure  with  a  filagree  of  sentiment,  philosophy, 
classical  and  Oriental  imagery,  of  women  and  wine  and  wit.  It 
was  a  society  which  loved  bric-a-brac,  and  Moore  gave  it  bric- 
a-brac  poetry  of  the  best  kind.  Never  was  it  better  done  ;  and 
the  verse  had  a  melodious  movement,  as  of  high-bred  and 
ignorant  ladies  dancing  on  enamelled  meadows,  which  pleased 
the  ear  and  almost  seemed  to  please  the  eye.  He  was  quite, 
then,  in  harmony  with  the  society  for  which  he  wrote,  and  it 
would  be  rather  surly  of  us  if  we  judged  him  altogether  from 
our  standard  of  poetry  and  abused  him  for  complying  with 
the  taste  of  his  time.  No  one  dreams  of  comparing  him  with 
the  greater  men,  or  of  giving  his  poetry  too  important  a  place 
in  the  history  of  English  song.  But  the  man  whose  work  Byron 
frankly  admired  ;  whom  Scott  did  not  dispraise  ;  who  received 
letters  of  thanks  and  appreciation  from  readers  in  America, 
Europe,  and  Asia ;  who  fulfilled  Matthew  Arnold's  somewhat 
foolish  criterion  of  a  poet's  greatness  by  being  known  and 
accepted  on  the  Continent ;  whom  the  Italians,  French, 
Germans*,  Russians,  Swedes,  and  Dutch  translated;  whose 
LALLA  ROOKH  was  partly  put  into  Persian,  and  became  the 
companion  of  Persians  on  their  travels  and  in  the  streets  of 
Ispahan ;  to  whom  publishers  like  Longmans  gave  3,ooo/.  for 
a  poem  before  they  had  even  seen  it,  '  as  a  tribute  to  repu- 
tation already  acquired ' — can  scarcely  be  treated  with  the 
indifferent  contempt  which  some  have  lavished  upon  him. 
He  pleased,  and  he  pleased  a  very  great  number.  Time  has 
altered  that  contemporary  verdict,  and  rightly — but  when  it  is 
almost  universal,  not  merely  the  verdict  of  a  clique,  it  counts. 
It  does  not  permit  us,  in  judging  of  a  poet,  to  throw  his  reputa- 
tion altogether  overboard.  And  indeed  what  he  did,  within 
his  own  range  and  at  his  lower  poetical  level,  was  well  done 


THOMAS  MOORE  37 


and  original.  The  graver  satires,  such  as  '  Corruption '  and 
'  Intolerance,'  written  in  imitation  of  Pope,  have  neither  weight, 
humour,  felicity  of  phrase,  nor  savage  bitterness.  He  had  no 
more  capacity  for  grave  or  cruel  poetry  than  a  butterfly  has  for 
making  honey  or  using  a  sting.  But  the  lighter  satirical  poetry, 
the  TWOPENNY  POST-BAG,  the  SATIRICAL  AND  HUMOROUS 
POEMS,  could  not  be  bettered.  They  stand  alone  in  their 
excellence.  They  have  a  roguish  happiness  in  their  own  wit, 
and  their  wit  is  honestly  brilliant.  They  are  severe,  but  there 
is  so  much  gaiety  in  the  severity  that  even  those  most  sharply 
attacked  had  no  desire  to  revenge  themselves.  Even  the  Prince- 
Regent — whom  Moore,  who  was  no  toady,  scarified — laughed 
at  the  picture  of  himself,  and  enjoyed  the  mockery.  We  can 
scarcely  imagine,  we  whom  no  such  wit  illumines,  how  society 
was  charmed,  tickled,  and  seasoned  by  jeux  <f  esprit  which  hit 
the  moment  with  such  sagacity  and  mirth,  and  which,  continued 
for  nearly  thirty  years,  kept  their  freshness  ;  and  even  now 
furnish  weapons  against  'that  spirit  of  monopoly  by  which, 
under  all  its  various  impersonations — commercial,  religious, 
and  political— these  satires  were  first  provoked.' 

A  worthier  subject  for  his  song  now  occurred  to  him.  It 
was  bound  up  with  the  associations  of  his  childhood  and  the 
patriotic  and  religious  passion  of  his  youth,  with  his  sympathy 
for  the  Irish  rising  and  his  friendship  for  Emmet.  It  was 
mingled  with  his  love  of  music  and  his  talent  for  singing  ;  and 
the  music  he  fitted  with  lyrics  was  the  creation  of  his  native 
land.  All  the  depths  which,  though  shallow  enough,  existed 
in  his  nature,  were  stirred  by  this  work,  and  among  the  songs 
he  wrote  to  Ireland's  music  his  best  poetry  lies — the  only 
poetry  of  his  which  will  continue  to  justly  please  mankind.  '  It 
was,'  he  says,  '  in  working  the  rich  mine  of  my  country's  melodies 
that  my  humble  labours  as  a  poet  have  derived  their  sole  lustre 
and  value.'  These  songs  have  variety ;  they  touch  both 
tragedy  and  comedy.  They  drink,  they  dance  and  sing  ;  they 
march  to  battle,  they  mourn  over  the  dead  ;  they  follow  the 
patriot  to  the  scaffold  and  to  exile ;  they  sing  the  scenery,  the 
legends,  the  sorrows,  and  the  mirth  of  Ireland.  They  do  this 


38  BOOK  II 


work  not  in  the  best  way  possible.  They  have  not  the  true 
Celtic  touch  either  in  joy  or  in  sorrow.  They  are  entirely 
devoid  of  mysticism  ;  they  never  belong  to  fairy-land ;  and 
Moore  did  not  conceive  for  a  moment  the  haunted,  obscure,  and 
majestic  darkness  of  the  Celtic  ancientry.  Their  patriotism  is 
mostly  on  the  surface — a  sympathy  more  dainty.than  passionate, 
nurtured  more  by  soft  music  than  by  salt  tears.  But  a  certain 
amount  of  patriotic  feeling  they  do  reach,  as  much  as  Moore, 
cossetted  by  English  society,  was  capable  of  supporting.  To 
as  much  of  it  as  he  felt,  he  was  faithful,  and  openly  faithful  ; 
and  this  is  a  courage  for  which  we  may  give  him  credit.  He 
did  more  for  Ireland  than  we  think.  He  made  her  music 
charm  the  world.  He  brought  by  his  singing  of  the  Melodies 
(and  though  he  had  no  power  in  his  voice,  he  had 
a  manner  of  singing  which  enchanted  and  thrilled  his 
hearers)  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of  Ireland  into  the  ears 
and  consideration  of  that  class  in  society  which  had  not 
listened  to  or  cared  for  them  before.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  Moore  hastened  Catholic  Emancipation  by  his  Melodies. 
Moreover,  a  natural  sweet  tenderness  which  was  of  the  very 
essence  of  the  man,  but  which  rarely  appears  in  his  poetry, 
emerges  and  surprises  in  some  of  the  IRISH  MELODIES.  How 
far  this  naturalness,  sincerity,  and  pathos  were  due  to  the  effect 
of  the  music  upon  him  I  cannot  quite  determine.  'I  only 
know,'  he  says,  *  that  in  a  strong  and  inborn  feeling  for  music 
lies  the  source  of  whatever  talent  I  may  have  shown  for 
poetical  composition,  and  that  it  was  the  effort  to  translate 
into  language  the  emotions  and  passions  which  music  appeared 
to  me  to  express  that  first  led  to  my  writing  any  poetry  at  all 
deserving  the  name.'  This  is  as  modest  as  it  is  true,  and  it 
supplies  us  with  the  best  definition  and  criticism  of  all  his 
serious  poetry.  That  poetry  is  the  translation  of  music  into  as 
pretty  and  melodious  words  as  possible  ;  and  the  poetry  varied 
in  form,  thought,  and  emotion  as  the  music  varied.  LALLA 
ROOKH  is  the  representation  in  words  of  the  florid,  fanciful 
music  which  pleased  his  time.  When  in  the  Irish  music  he 
touched  a  sadder,  wilder,  tenderer,  and  more  imaginative 


THOMAS  MOORE  39 


music— which  in  its  mirth  was  broken  into  plaintiveness,  and  in 
its  plaintiveness  turned  on  itself  with  laughter,  which  mingled 
with  its  note  of  joyous  defiance  the  passionate  pain  of  the  exile 
for  the  home  where  so  many  brave  men  had  died  under 
oppression — he  was  lifted  by  the  music  into  a  higher  region  of 
poetry.  What  he  heard,  he  wrote.  Music  was  first,  and 
poetry  followed.  This  is  not  the  case  with  a  great  poet. 
Music  may  illustrate  his  work,  not  create  it.  Poetry  is  first. 
That  it  was  not  first  with  Moore  places  him  in  a  unique 
position  among  the  poets,  and  accounts  for  that  strangeness  in 
his  work  which  differentiates  it  from  all  the  poetry  which 
appeared  in  his  time — indeed,  from  any  other  English  poetry. 
It  had  no  resemblance  to  Scott ;  it  was  wholly  unaffected  by 
the  revival  of  naturalism  in  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  The 
influence  of  Byron  may  be  traced  in  it  and  in  its  subjects,  but 
it  was  devoid  of  Byron's  power  and  of  his  poetic  passion.  It 
was  like  nothing  else;  and  we  may  at  least  grant  him  the 
praise  of  originality.  To  this  strangeness  may  perhaps  be 
traced  some  of  his  amazing  popularity  ;  LALLA  ROOKH  ran 
in  a  short  time  through  twenty  editions.  His  tragedies  are 
absurd.  The  *  Veiled  Prophet '  is  transpontine.  Where  the 
*  Fire  Worshippers '  has  power,  it  is  derived  from  his  Irish 
hatred  of  intolerance  and  the  remembrance  of  the  oppression 
of  his  country.  '  Paradise  and  the  Peri '  is  melodious,  but 
curiously  insincere  ;  and  '  Nourmahal '  just  suited  Moore's 
prattling  tenderness  in  love  and  his  delight  in  ornamental 
description.  It  is  a  really  pretty  story  of  true  love,  told  some- 
times with  grace  and  charm,  and  sometimes  with  irritating 
sentimentality.  As  to  the  prose  insertions,  which  weave  the 
various  poems  into  a  romance,  they  are  not  unworthy. 
They  have  the  gilded  quality  of  the  poetry,  but,  like  the  poetry, 
they  are  readable  in  certain  moods.  It  is  easy  to  criticise 
LALLA  ROOKH,  like  Fadladeen  ;  but  it  is  pleasanter  far,  when 
the  temper  seizes  us  for  that  sort  of  thing,  to  pass  into  another 
age  and  listen  to  it,  not  for  long,  as  the  Princess  listened  to 
Feramorz. 

In  1817  his  visit  to  Paris  awoke  again  his  satirical  Muse, 


40  BOOK  II 


and  the  FUDGE  FAMILY  had  nearly  as  much  success  as  LALLA 
ROOKH.  He  travelled  then,  and  his  RHYMES  ON  THE  ROAD 
are  only  '  bad  prose  fringed  with  rhyme.'  Owing  to  pecuniary 
difficulties,  he  lived  in  Paris  till  1822,  when  the  LOVES  OF  THE 
ANGELS,  the  FABLES  FOR  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE,  and  the  kindness 
of  some  friends  freed  him  from  his  trouble.  The  EPICUREAN, 
a  prose  tale,  originally  conceived  as  a  poem — in  which  Egyptian, 
Greek  and  Christian  philosophy  are  pounded  together,  as  in  a 
mortar,  with  Athenian  gardens,  pyramids,  Nile  temples,  the 
Thebaid  desert  and  mystic  marvels— ended  his  poetic  career. 
He  lived  to  write  a  few  more  songs,  the  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON, 
and  an  almost  worthless  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND. 

Moore  is  neither  a  truly  Celtic  nor  a  truly  English  poet. 
The  deep  things  in  the  Irish  nature  were  not  in  him.  No 
mysticism  made  him  dream ;  no  hunger  for  the  spiritual  world 
beset  him ;  no  fairyland,  sometimes  gracious,  but  chiefly 
terrible,  was  more  real  to  him  than  the  breathing  world.  No 
sadness  without  a  known  cause,  no  joy  whose  source  was 
uncomprehended,  influenced  him.  Nature  did  not  speak  to 
him  of  dreadful  and  obscure  powers,  or  of  beauty  and  love  and 
eternal  youth  beyond  mortal  reach  but  not  beyond  immortal 
desire.  The  love  of  his  country  was  no  passion  ;  it  was  more 
that  political  hatred  of  intolerance  and  oppression  which  any 
honest  Whig  might  feel,  but  which  Moore  felt  deeply  as  a 
Catholic.  None  of  these  Celtic  elements  belonged  to  him, 
and  they  and  others  are  at  the  roots  of  Irish  imagination.  Nor 
did  he  replace  them  by  the  elements  of  English  imagination. 
His  poetry  is  no  more  English  than  Irish  in  character.  It 
does  not  grow  naturally  out  of  the  tree  of  English  poetry  ;  it  is  a 
graft  upon  it.  He  does  not  descend  from  any  poetical  ancestors 
in  England,  and  he  has  had  no  influence  on  any  of  the  English 
poets  that  followed  him.  He  stands,  as  I  have  said,  curiously 
alone.  Had  he  had  imagination,  he  would  have  been  in  brother- 
hood with  either  English,  Scottish,  or  Irish  poets.  But  he  is  a 
curious  instance  of  a  poet  who  never,  save  perhaps  in  one  or 
two  songs,  deviates  into  imaginative  work.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  is  a  master  in  fancy,  a  poet  so  full  of  that  power  which 


THOMAS  MOORE  41 

plays  with  grace  and  brightness  on  t,he  surface  of  Nature  and 
man  but  which  never  penetrates,  that  few  if  any  have  ever 
showed  so  well  what  fancy  could  do,  when  quite  alone,  and 
enjoying  herself,  apart  from  her  nobler  sister,  imagination. 
And  Moore  helped  his  fancy  by  collecting,  with  infinite  care, 
heaps  of  material  on  which  she  could  work.  He  ransacked 
classical  and  Oriental  history,  philosophy,  botany,  legendary 
lore,  religion,  dress,  jewels  ;  everything  to  supply  his  fancy 
with  illustrations,  with  subjects  which  she  could  entertain 
herself  with  ornamenting.  No  copiousness,  no  fertility  is 
greater,  in  this  region,  than  Moore's.  And  he  brought  to  the 
help  of  his  fancy  a  wit,  an  esprit^  which  made  everything  he 
touched  with  it  sparkle  and  sing.  Lastly,  owing  to  his  love  of 
music,  he  gave  to  his  poetry  all  the  tenderness  of  which  fancy 
is  capable,  and  a  melodious  movement,  a  metrical  flexibility, 
which  delighted  his  contemporaries,  and  which  has  the  power 
still  of  pleasing  our  later  and  more  fastidious  time. 

STOPFORD  A.  BROOKE. 

Thomas  Moore  was  born  in  Dublin,  1779.  His  father  was  a  native  of 
County  Kerry,  his  mother  of  Wexford.  He  was  educated,  like  Sheridan 
before  him,  mainly  at  Samuel  Whyte's  excellent  grammar-school.  He 
entered  Trinity  College  in  1794,  the  year  after  the  partial  repeal  of  the 
Penal  Laws  permitted  a  Roman  Catholic  to  do  so.  Here  Robert  Emmet 
was  one  of  his  closest  friends,  and  he  was  very  nearly  being  involved  with 
him  in  the  United  Irish  conspiracy.  In  1799  he  went  to  London,  bringing 
with  him  the  reputation  which  his  wonderful  singing  and  playing  had  gained 
for  him  in  Dublin  society  and  the  volume  of  translations  from  Anacreon  which 
was  his  first  published  work.  The  introduction  to  the  Prince  of  Wales 
set  him  on  the  high  road  to  success,  and  his  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  THE 
LATE  THOMAS  LITTLE  (1801)  was  much  applauded  and  admired.  He  was 
appointed  Admiralty  Registrar  at  the  Bermudas  in  1803,  and  after  a  short 
visit  to  the  island  placed  the  duties  of  the  office,  after  the  usual  practice  of 
the  day,  in  the  hands  of  a  deputy,  and  went  on  a  tour  through  the  United 
States  and  Canada.  He  returned  to  London  in  the  winter  of  1804.  In  1806 
appeared  the  ODES  AND  EPISTLES,  which,  on  a  severe  review  in  the  Edin- 
burgh^ led  to  an  abortive  duel  with  Jeffrey,  afterwards  one  of  Moore's  closest 
friends.  In  the  following  year,  1807,  began  the  publication  of  the  IRISH 
MELODIES  with  music,  arranged  by  Stevenson.  The  airs  were  taken  chiefly 
from  the  collections  of  Bunting  and  Holden,  and  were  mercilessly  altered 


42  BOOK  II 

(whether  by  Moore  or  his  collaborator  is  unknown)  to  suit  the  musical  taste 
of  the  day.  In  the  admirable  edition  of  the  MELODIES  in  which  the 
original  airs  have  been  at  last  restored  by  the  hand  of  Dr.  C.  Villiers 
Stanford  it  is  suggested  in  the  preface  that  Stevenson,  who  was  much 
under  the  influence  of  Haydn,  '  imported  into  his  arrangements  a  dim  echo 
of  the  style  of  the  great  Austrian  composer.  He  could  scarcely,'  adds 
Dr.  Stanford,  '  have  chosen  a  model  more  unsuited  for  the  wildness  and 
ruggedness  of  the  music  with  which  he  had  to  deal.  This  probably  led  to 
the  alterations  of  scales  and  characteristic  intervals  (such  as  the  flat 
seventh)  which  are  the  life  and  soul  of  Irish  melodies.'  The  publication 
of  the  MELODIES  went  on  at  irregular  intervals  till  1834,  Moore  receiving 
a  hundred  guineas  for  each  song,  or  I2,8io/.  in  all.  In  1811  he  married 
a  young  actress,  Miss  Bessie  Dyke.  Save  for  the  untimely  death  of  all 
the  five  children  born  of  their  union,  his  domestic  life  appears  to  have 
been  one  of  unclouded  happiness,  as  it  was  certainly  one  of  enduring 
affection  on  both  sides.  The  young  couple  settled  first  at  Keyworth  in 
Leicestershire  ;  afterwards  at  other  places  in  the  country.  About  this  time 
Moore  engaged  to  write  a  long  narrative  poem  for  Longmans,  and  that 
publisher,  before  a  line  of  the  work  was  written,  undertook  to  pay  3,ooo/. 
for  it — the  highest  sum  ever  as  yet  offered  for  a  single  poem.  Moore  shut 
himself  up  with  a  library  of  Eastern  books,  and  in  1815,  after  many 
unsuccessful  attempts,  had  written  enough  of  LALLA  ROOKH  to  submit  to 
the  opinion  of  the  publisher,  who  however  declined  to  read  it.  In  1816, 
the  year  following  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  when  England  was  passing 
through  an  epoch  of  the  deepest  commercial  depression,  Moore  with  the 
scrupulous  honour  which  he  carried  into  all  business  transactions 
volunteered  to  let  the  publisher  off  his  bargain.  The  latter,  however, 
refused  to  accept  the  offer,  and  LALLA  ROOKH  came  out  in  1817,  achieving 
an  immediate  and  striking  success  and  winning  for  its  author  a  European 
fame.  Shortly  afterwards  a  severe  financial  disaster  befell  him.  His 
deputy  at  the  Bermudas  turned  out  a  rogue,  and  Moore  found  himself  liable 
to  the  Admiralty  for  6,ooo/.  of  defalcations.  Ultimately  the  debt  was 
reduced  to  i,ooo/. ,  which  was  settled  by  a  wealthy  friend  of  the  poet,  Lord 
Lansdowne,  and  shortly  afterwards  repaid  to  him  by  Moore.  His  NATIONAL 
AIRS  (1815)  and  SACRED  SONGS  (1816)  had  begun  to  rival  the  success  of 
the  MELODIES.  In  1817  a  trip  to  the  Continent  gave  the  motive  for 
he  FUDGE  FAMILY  IN  PARIS  and  the  other  satires  of  the  same  series. 

The  LOVES  OF  THE  ANGELS  appeared  in  1822,  and  FABLES  FOR  THE 
HOLY  ALLIANCE  in  1823.  In  the  following  year  Moore  was  the  chief 
actor  in  one  of  the  most  singular  and  mysterious  episodes  of  literary  history. 
During  a  visit  to  Venice  in  1819  Byron  had  presented  Moore  with  his 
memoirs,  a  striking  testimony  to  the  honour  and  discretion  of  his  friend. 
The  death  of  Byron  occurred  in  April  1824.  Moore  had  in  1821  sold  the 


THOMAS  MOORE  43 


memoirs  to  John  Murray  for  2,000  guineas.  It  was  evidently  con- 
templated both  by  Byron  and  by  Moore  that  the  memoirs  should  be 
published  after  the  death  of  their  author.  Yet  immediately  after  that 
event  Moore  repaid  Murray  the  2,000  guineas  with  interest,  and  induced 
him  to  return  the  manuscripts,  which  he  at  once  put  in  the  fire.  The  only 
thing  we  can  feel  certain  of  in  regard  to  this  strange  transaction  is  that  the 
motive  of  it  must  have  been  honourable  both  to  Moore  and  to  his 
publisher.  Moore,  however,  did  not  eventually  suffer  by  it,  as  he  undertook 
a  LIFE  OF  BYRON  (published  in  1830),  for  which  Murray  paid  him  4,000 
guineas.  About  the  same  year  the  LIFE  OF  LORD  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 
and  the  MEMOIRS  OF  CAPTAIN  ROCK  testified  to  the  constant  affection  for 
his  native  land  which  time  and  circumstances  never  weakened.  His  LIFE  OF 
SHERIDAN  had  appeared  in  1825.  During  the  later  years  of  his  life  Moore 
unwisely  undertook  to  write  a  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  for  Lardner  s  CABINET 
CYCLOPEDIA.  The  work,  for  which  he  eventually  discovered  himself  to 
be  wholly  unfitted,  spread  to  four  times  the  bulk  originally  intended,  and 
his  intellect  and  energy  sank  under  the  burden.  It  turned  out  to  be  the 
solitary  failure  of  an  unusually  successful  literary  career.  He  died  in  1852, 
and  was  buried  at  Bromham  near  Devizes.  His  wife  survived  him  for  a 
few  years,  and  part  of  the  literary  pension  of  300^.  a  year  which  Moore 
had  enjoyed  since  1835  was  continued  to  her  for  her  lifetime. 

THE  SONG  OF  FIONNUALA 

SILENT,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water  ; 

Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 
While,  murmuring  mournfully,  Lii's  lonely  daughter 

Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 
When  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note  singing, 

Sleep,  with  wings  in  darkness  furl'd  ? 
When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bells  ringing, 

Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  ? 

Sadly,  O  Moyle,  to  thy  winter-wave  weeping, 

Fate  bids  me  languish  long  ages  away ; 
Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping, 

Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay. 
When  will  that  day-star,  mildly  springing, 

Warm  our  isle  with  peace  and  love  ? 
When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bells  ringing, 

Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above  ? 


44  BOOK  II 


THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS* 

THROUGH  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheer'd  my 

way 

Till  hope  seem'd  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me  lay; 
The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love  burn'd, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turn'd  ; 
Yes,  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 
And  bless'd  even  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to  thee. 

Thy  rival  was  honour'd,  while  thou  wert  wrong'd  and  scorn'd. 
Thy  crown  was  of  briars,  while  gold  her  brows  adorn'd  ; 
She  woo'd  me  to  temples,  whilst  thou  lay'st  hid  in  caves, 
Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine,  alas  !  were  slaves  ; 
Yet  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet,  I  would  rather  be 
Than  wed  what  I  lov'd  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,  who  say  thy  vows  are  frail  — 
Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  had  look'd  less  pale. 
They  say,  too,  so  long  thou  hast  worn  those  lingering  chains, 
That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  their  servile  stains. 
Oh  !  foul  is  the  slander  —  no  chain  could  that  soul  subdue  — 
Where  shineth  thy  spirit,  there  liberty  shineth  too  ! 

1  The  peculiar  metre  of  this  and  the  following  poem  is  not  uncommon 
in  Gaelic  verse  :  e.g. 


ru  5  At)  5-CAfin«M5,  no 
No  A  B-JTACA  cu  5jle,  jnnne,  '^u- 

From  this  source  it  seems  to  have  found  its  way  into  English  literature, 
Shelley  used  it,  dividing  the  lines  differently,  and  with  double  rhymes,  in 
the  lines  written  in  1822  : 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  ; 
When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  fled. 

and  Swinburne  in  his  SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE  : 

Who  is  this  that  sits  by  the  way,  by  the  wild  wayside, 
In  a  rent  stained  raiment,  the  robe  of  a  cast-off  bride  ? 


THOMAS  MOORE  45 

AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT 

AT  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  lov'd,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine  eye  ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air, 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember' d,  even  in  the  sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  'twas  once  such  pleasure  to  hear  ! 

When  our  voices  commingling  breath'd,  like  one,  on  the  ear  ; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,  O  my  love  !  'tis  thy  voice  from  the  Kingdom  of  Souls, 

Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

WHEN  HE  WHO  ADORES  THEE 

WHEN  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  faults  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
Oh  !  say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree  : 
For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  ; 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine, 
Oh  !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE 

NIGHT  clos'd  around  the  conqueror's  way 
And  lightnings  show'd  the  distant  hill 

Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day 
Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still. 


46  BOOK  II 


The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal, 
For  ever  dimm'd,  for  ever  crost  — 

Oh  !  who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 
When  all  but  life  and  honour's  lost  ? 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream 

And  valour's  task  mov'd  slowly  by, 
While  mute  they  watch'd  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die. 
There's  yet  a  world  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  Nature's  bliss  :  — 
If  death  that  world's  bright  opening  be, 

Oh  !  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this  ? 

THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

OFT,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  hath  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  hath  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 

I  feel  like  one 

WTho  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 

Whose  lights  are  fled, 

Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed  ! 


THOMAS  MOORE  47 

Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  hath  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

ON  Music 

WHEN  thro'  life  unblest  we  rove, 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 
Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love 

In  days  of  boyhood  meet  our  ear, 
Oh  !  how  welcome  breathes  the  strain, 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept, 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept. 

Like  the  gale  that  sighs  along 

Beds  of  Oriental  flowers 
Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours  ; 
Fill'd  with  balm,  the  gale  sighs  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death  ; 
So,  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone, 

Its  memory  lives  in  Music's  breath 

Music  !  oh  how  faint,  how  weak 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 
Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak, 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 
Friendship's  balmy  words  may  feign, 

Love's  are  e'en  more  false  than  they ; 
Oh  !  'tis  only  Music's  strain 

Can  sweetly  soothe  and  not  betray. 

ECHO 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 

To  music  at  night, 

When,  rous'd  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away,  o'er  lawns  and  lakes, 

Goes  answering  light  ! 


48  BOOK  II 


Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far, 

And  far  more  sweet, 
Than  e'er  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 
Of  horn,  or  lute,  or  soft  guitar, 

The  songs  repeat. 

'Tis  when  the  sigh  in  youth  sincere — 

And  only  then — 

The  sigh  that's  breath'd  for  one  to  hear 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  dear, 

Breath'd  back  again  ! 

As  SLOW  OUR  SHIP 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  Isle  'twas  leaving, 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us  ; 
So  turn  our  hearts  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

When  round  the  bowl  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming  ; 
While  mem'ry  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flow'ry,  wild  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting  ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 

If  Heav'n  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us  ! 


THOMAS  MOORE  49 


As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave, 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

No,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear, 
When,  half-awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  the  full  choir  of  heaven  is  near — 
Than  came  that  voice,  when,  all  forsaken, 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain, 
Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  waken 

To  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort!  'twas  like  the  stealing 

Of  summer  wind  thro'  some  wreathed  shell — 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  all  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell  ; 
Twas  whisper'd  balm — 'twas  sunshine  spoken 

I'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 

By  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 


MY  BIRTHDAY 

'  MY  birthday  ! '  What  a  different  sound 
That  word  had  in  my  youthful  ears  ! 

And  how,  each  time  the  day  comes  round, 
Less  and  less  white  its  mark  appears  ! 

When  first  our  scanty  years  are  told, 
It  seems  like  pastime  to  grow  old  ; 


50  BOOK  II 


And  as  youth  counts  the  shining  links 
That  time  around  him  binds  so  fast, 

Pleased  with  the  task,  he  little  thinks 
How  hard  that  chain  will  press  at  last. 

Vain  was  the  man,  and  false  as  vain, 

Who  said,  '  Were  he  ordained  to  run 
His  long  career  of  life  again, 

He  would  do  all  that  he  had  done.' 
Ah  !  'tis  not  thus  the  voice  that  dwells 

In  sober  birthdays  speaks  to  me  ; 
Far  otherwise — of  time  it  tells 

Lavished  unwisely,  carelessly  ; 
Of  counsel  mocked  ;  of  talents  made 

Haply  for  high  and  pure  designs, 
But  oft,  like  Israel's  incense,  laid 

Upon  unholy,  earthly  shrines  ; 
Of  nursing  many  a  wrong  desire  ; 

Of  wandering  after  Love  too  far, 
And  taking  every  meteor  fire 

That  crossed  my  pathway  for  his  star  ! 
All  this  it  tells,  and  could  I  trace 

The  imperfect  picture  o'er  again, 
With  power  to  add,  retouch,  efface 

The  lights  and  shades,  the  joy  and  pain, 
How  little  of  the  past  would  stay  ! 
How  quickly  all  should  melt  away — 
All — but  that  freedom  of  the  mind 

WThich  hath  been  more  than  wealth  to  me  ; 
Those  friendships  in  my  boyhood  twined, 

And  kept  till  now  unchangingly  ; 
And  that  dear  home,  that  saving  ark 

Where  Love's  true  light  at  last  I've  found, 
Cheering  within  when  all  grows  dark 

And  comfortless  and  stormy  round. 


CHARLES    WOLFE 


CHARLES   WOLFE 

THE  world  is  often  spoken  of  as  dull  and  blind  to  true 
excellence.  It  is  a  shallow  view.  Humanity  bristles  with 
sensitive  tentacles  which  rarely  fail  to  grasp  and  draw  in  any- 
thing that  will  nourish  it,  even  if  they  sometimes,  for  a  time, 
lay  hold  of  things  useless  and  unwholesome.  Even  thus  the 
world's  tentacles  get  hold  of  things,  like  the  DISCOURSES  of 
Epictetus  or  the  RELIGIO  MEDICI,  that  never  were  intended  for 
publicity,  nor  do  they  fail  to  search  out  minuter  things  too. 
The  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe,  an  obscure  Irish  clergyman, 
writes  a  short  poem  which  a  friend  who  had  learned  it  recites 
to  a  casual  travelling  acquaintance.  The  latter  publishes 
it  in  the  Newry  Telegraph.  Soon  it  is  on  the  lips  of 
Shelley  and  Byron,  and  now  there  is  hardly  a  reader  of  the 
English  language  who  has  not  read  the  '  Burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore.'  Few  indeed  are  the  '  occasional '  poems  that  possess 
so  enduring  a  power  to  move  the  heart.  Its  note  of  pride  and 
sorrow  is  tuned  to  that  of  all  the  lofty  sorrows  of  the  world, 
and  the  very  music  of  the  lines,  with  their  long,  deep  vowel 
sounds,  like  the  burst  of  solemn  passion  in  Beethoven's 
Funeral  March,  will  carry  their  meaning  and  emotion  to 
readers  of  many  generations  hence. 

Wolfe  wrote  but  little  poetry  in  his  short  life,  and  little  of 
what  he  wrote  can  compare  with  the  '  Burial  Ode.'  But  the 
'  Song  '  which  he  wrote  under  the  influence  of  a  strain  of  Irish 
music,  to  which  he  was  keenly  sensitive,  has  a  remarkable 
intensity  of  feeling  and  sweetness  of  melody.  He  had  a  keen 
affection  for  his  native  land  and  all  that  it  produced,  and  though 
a  descendant  of  the  dominant  class,  and  what  we  should  now 
call  an  Imperialist,  he  could  write  lines  like  the  following  from 
his  long  poem  on  '  Patriotism  ' : 

O  Erin  !  O  my  mother  !  I  will  love  thee  ! 
Whether  upon  thy  green  Atlantic  throne 
Thou  sitt'st  august,  majestic  and  sublime  ; 

K2 


52  BOOK  II 


Or  on  thy  empire's  last  remaining  fragment 
Bendest  forlorn,  dejected  and  forsaken, — 
Thy  smiles,  thy  tears,  thy  blessings  and  thy  woes, 
Thy  glory  and  thy  infamy,  be  mine  ! 

The  selection  here  given  includes  one  poem — a  sonnet — 
not  previously  printed.  It  is  taken  from  a  manuscript  insertion 
bound  up  in  a  volume  of  the  LIFE  AND  REMAINS  OF  THE 
REV.  C.  WOLFE  (third  edition,  1827)  which  was  purchased  in  a 
second-hand  bookshop  in  Dublin  in  1888,  The  volume  has 
also  bound  up  with  it  a  leaf  from  Bentley's  Magazine,  vol.  v., 
containing  a  German  version  of  the  '  Burial  Ode,'  and  a  copy 
of  a  note  from  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  in  Ward's  ENGLISH  POETS, 
vol.  iv.  (1880),  on  the  history  of  the  Ode.  After  these  come 
two  quarto  leaves  of  older  paper,  and  written  in  a  quite  differ- 
ent and  evidently  earlier  handwriting.  They  contain  three 
hitherto  unknown  pieces  alleged  to  be  by  Wolfe.  The  first  is 
entitled  « The  Contrast :  Lines  written  by  the  Rev.  C.  Wolfe 
while  standing  under  Windsor  Terrace.'  It  is  a  poem  on 
George  III.,  reading  like  a  hasty  -impromptu  sketch  of  what 
might  have  been  made  a  powerful  piece  of  verse.  I  may 
quote  two  stanzas : 

We  have  fought  the  fight.     From  his  lofty  throne 

The  foe  to  our  land  we  tumbled, 
And  it  gladdened  each  heart,  save  his  alone 

For  whom  that  foe  was  humbled  : 
His  silver  beard  o'er  a  bosom  spread 

Unvaried  by  life's  emotion, 
Like  a  yearly  lengthening  snowdrift  spread 

On  the  calm  of  a  frozen  ocean. 

Still  o'er  him  Oblivion's  waters  lay, 

Though  the  tide  of  life  kept  flowing ; 
When  they  spoke  of  the  King,  'twas  but  to  say, 

'  The  old  man's  strength  is  going.' 
At  intervals  thus  the  waves  disgorge, 

By  weakness  rent  asunder, 
A  piece  of  the  wreck  of  the  '  Royal  George,' 

For  the  people's  pity  and  wonder. 

Then  comes  the  sonnet  given  below,  and  finally  a  poem 


CHARLES    WOLFE  53 

On  hearing  '  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer'— a.  melody  on  which 
Wolfe  wrote  a  prose  story  now  extant.     The  last  stanza  runs  : 

Sweet  mourner,  cease  that  melting  strain, 
Too  well  it  suits  the  grave's  cold  slumbers  ; 

Too  well— the  heart  that  loved  in  vain 
Breathes,  lives,  and  weeps  in  those  wild  numbers. 

T.    W.    ROLLESTON. 

Charles  Wolfe  was  the  son  of  Theobald  Wolfe,  a  landowner  of  the 
County  Kildare,  of  the  same  family  as  the  hero  of  Quebec,  now  represented 
by  Richard  Wolfe,  Esq.,  of  Forenaghts,  County  Kildare.  One  of  Theobald 
Wolfe's  tenants  was  Peter  Tone,  a  coachmaker  of  Dublin,  who  called  his 
eldest  son  after  his  landlord  -  Theobald  Wolfe— and  thus  caused  the 
name  to  be  written  deep  in  Irish  history.  Charles  Wolfe  was  born 
in  1791,  and  was  educated  at  Winchester,  and  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
where  he  was  distinguished  for  high  intellectual  attainments  and  successes. 
He  took  orders  in  1817  (the  year  in  which  the  '  Burial  Ode  '  was  published), 
and  held  curacies  at  Drumclog  and  Castle  Caulfield,  County  Tyrone.  He 
was  intensely  beloved  by  all  conditions  of  people  among  his  flock,  for  whom 
he  ruined  his  weak  constitution  in  devoted  work.  He  died  of  consumption 
in  1823,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  restore  his  health  by  a  voyage  to  France. 
His  LIFE  AND  REMAINS  have  been  published  (1825)  by  the  Rev.  Arch- 
deacon Russell. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 


NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

II 
We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

in 
No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


54  BOOK  II 


IV 


Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


We  thought,  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

VI 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

VII 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring, 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

VIII 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory  ! 

SONNET  WRITTEN  DURING  HIS  RESIDENCE  IN  COLLEGE 

MY  spirit's  on  the  mountains,  where  the  birds 

In  wild  and  sportive  freedom  wing  the  air, 
Amidst  the  heath-flowers  and  the  browsing  herds, 

Where  Nature's  altar  is,  my  spirit's  there. 
It  is  my  joy  to  tread  the  pathless  hills, 

Though  but  in  fancy— for  my  mind  is  free, 
And  walks  by  sedgy  ways  and  trickling  rills, 

While  I'm  forbid  the  use  of  libertv. 


CHARLES    WOLFE  55 

This  is  delusion,  but  it  is  so  sweet 

That  I  could  live  deluded.     Let  me  be 

Persuaded  that  my  springing  soul  may  meet 
The  eagle  on  the  hills — and  I  am  free. 

Who'd  not  be  flatter'd  by  a  fate  like  this  ? 

To  fancy  is  to  feel  our  happiness. 

LINES  WRITTEN  TO  Music 

IF  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  : 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  past 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more. 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain  ! 
But  when  I  speak— thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid  ; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary,  thou  art  dead  ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been. 
While  e'en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own  : 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave — 

And  now  I  am  alone  ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me, 
And  I  perhaps  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  : 


56  BOOK  II 


Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light,  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  Fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore. 


LUKE   AYLMER  CONOLLY 

THE  following  poem  is  frequently  printed  as  anonymous.  It 
was  written  by  Conolly,  and  is  in  his  LEGENDARY  TALES  IN 
VERSE,  published  anonymously  in  Belfast  in  1813.  He  was 
born  at  Ballycastle,  County  Antrim,  graduated  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  in  1806,  and  entered  the  Church.  He  died 
in  or  about  1833. 

THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 

To  Rathlin's  Isle  I  chanced  to  sail 

When  summer  breezes  softly  blew, 
And  there  I  heard  so  sweet  a  tale 

That  oft  I  wished  it  could  be  true. 

They  said,  at  eve,  when  rude  winds  sleep, 

And  hushed  is  ev'ry  turbid  swell, 
A  mermaid  rises  from  the  deep, 

And  sweetly  tunes  her  magic  shell. 

And  while  she  plays,  rock,  dell,  and  cave, 

In  dying  falls  the  sound  retain, 
As  if  some  choral  spirits  gave 

Their  aid  to  swell  her  witching  strain. 

Then,  summoned  by  that  dulcet  note, 

Uprising  to  th'  admiring  view, 
A  fairy  island  seems  to  float 

With  tints  of  many  a  gorgeous  hue. 

And  glittering  fanes,  and  lofty  towers, 

All  on  this  fairy  isle  are  seen  : 
And  waving  trees,  and  shady  bowers, 

With  more  than  mortal  verdure  green. 


LUKE  AYLMER   CO  NOLLY  57 

And  as  it  moves,  the  western  sky 

Glows  with  a  thousand  varying  rays  ; 
And  the  calm  sea,  tinged  with  each  dye, 

Seems  like  a  golden  flood  of  haze. 

They  also  say,  if  earth  or  stone 

From  verdant  Erin's  hallowed  land 
Were  on  this  magic  island  thrown, 

For  ever  fixed  it  then  would  stand. 

But  when  for  this  some  little  boat 

In  silence  ventures  from  the  shore 
The  mermaid  sinks — hushed  is  the  note — 

The  fairy  isle  is  seen  no  more. 


MARGUERITE   A.    POWER 

NIECIC  of  Lady  Blessington,  and  a  clever  writer  of  verse. 
Landor  praised  her  poems  on  more  than  one  occasion.  She 
was  born  about  1815,  and  died  in  July  1867.  She  wrote  much 
poetry  for  periodicals  (such  as  The  Irish  Metropolitan  Maga- 
zine, 1857-8)  edited  by  herself,  her  aunt,  and  others,  and  also 
several  novels  and  a  book  of  travel.  The  following  is  from 
her  best  poem,  'Virginia's  Hand,'  which  was  separately  published 
in  1860  : 

A  HIDDEN  ROSE-TREE 

....  LATE  at  morning's  prime  I  roved, 

Where  erst  a  garden  bloomed,  where  now  a  waste 

Of  tangled  vegetation,  rank  and  wild, 

Held  sole  pre-eminence — or  so  I  deemed — 

Till,  turning  from  an  alley  long  untrod, 

And  densely  sheltered  by  o'er-arching  boughs, 

From  whence,  scarce  half  a  foot  above  my  head, 

The  shrieking  blackbirds  darted  from  the  nest 

My  presence  had  invaded,  I  arrived 

Upon  a  little  space  hedged  closely  round 


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With  dark-leaved  evergreens,  but  at  the  top 

The  blue  sky  spread  its  canopy,  unbarred 

By  crossing  boughs,  and  in  his  daily  course 

From  east  to  west  the  genial  sun  would  still 

Grant  it  a  smile  in  passing.     'Mid  the  shrubs 

A  strong  white  forest-rose  had  taken  root 

(Perchance  been  planted  by  a  hand  mine  knew, 

Now  mouldering — O  my  heart,  thou  knowest  where  ! ) 

And  all  the  stem  and  lower  boughs  concealed 

Amid  the  thicker  evergreens,  its  top 

Had  struggled  upwards  towards  the  heaven  above 

'Gainst  obstacles  incredible,  till  now 

Far  o'er  my  head,  among  dark,  polished  leaves 

Of  laurel  and  stiff  holly,  it  outspread 

Its  clusters  exquisite  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Some  yet  green-sheathed,  some  tinted  at  the  heart 

With  faintest  yellow,  others  shedding  down 

Their  petals  white,  that  lay  like  pearly  shells 

Receding  waves  have  left  on  lonely  shores. 


GEORGE  BARLEY 

THE  poems  of  George  Darley  are  among  the  most  curious 
phenomena  of  literature.  There  are  surely  few  as  yet  un- 
acquainted with  him  who  can  read  the  verses  here  given 
as  specimens  of  his  work  without  eagerly  desiring  to  know 
more  of  the  writer.  There  are  probably  none  who  would 
not  be  disappointed  with  the  result  of  further  researches. 
Darley — the  recluse,  the  poet,  the  mathematician,  living 
without  distraction  the  ardent  life  of  the  spirit — could,  as  at 
times  in  NEPENTHE,  breathe  forth  a  strain  of  such  glorious 
music  that  one  might  think  it  could  only  have  been  uttered 
by  a  poetic  genius  of  the  highest  order.  But  we  read  on, 
and  the  brain  becomes  exhausted  and  benumbed.  Dazzled 
and  weaiy,  we  seek  a  refuge  from  the  unvarying  blaze  of 


GEORGE  DARLEY  59 


verbal  splendour  ;  and  there  is  no  refuge  but  to  shut  the  book. 
The  Celtic  intoxication  of  sounding  rhythm  and  glittering 
phrase  was  never  better  illustrated  than  by  George  Darley. 
Frequently  it  happens  that  his  verse,  though  always  preserving 
in  some  curious  way  the  outward  characteristics  of  fine  poetry, 
becomes  a  sort  of  caput  morfaum  ;  the  glow  of  life  fades  out  of 
it.  Or,  again,  it  gives  us  only  '  splendours  that  perplex '  and 
leaves  the  spirit  faint  and  bewildered.  But  when,  as  sometimes 
happens,  spirit  and  sound,  light  and  life,  come  together  in 
their  miraculous  accord  and  form  a  living  creation  of  spiritual 
ecstasy,  then  indeed  we  can  yield  ourselves  wholly  to  the 
spell  of  the  Celtic  enchantment. 

George  Barley's  work  of  course  won  cordial  recognition 
from  his  brother-poets  of  the  day.  Tennyson  offered  to  pay 
the  expenses  of  publishing  his  verse  ;  Browning  was  inspired 
by  SYLVIA  ;  Carey,  the  translator  of  Dante,  thought  that  drama 
the  finest  poem  of  the  day.  But  Darley,  misanthropic,  way- 
ward, and  afflicted  with  an  exceptionally  painful  impediment 
in  his  speech  which  drove  him  from  society  in  morbid  isolation, 
seems  never  to  have  met  his  peers  in  wholesome  human 
contact,  and  lived  alone,  burying  himself  in  the  study  of 
mathematics,  of  Gaelic,  and  what  not,  weaving  his  rich  and 
strange  fancies,  apparently  indifferent  to  public  approval 
or  criticism,  which  indeed  the  public  spared  him  by  entirely 
ignoring  him.  He  was  author  of  several  mathematical  works 
said  to  show  remarkable  merit  and  originality. 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON. 

George  Darley  was  born  in  Dublin,  1795  '•>  tne  eldest  son  of  Arthur 
Darley,of  the  Scalp,  County  Wicklow.  His  family  is  believed  to  have  come 
into  Ireland  with  the  Ulster  Plantation.  He  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
in  1815,  and  graduated  in  1820.  In  1822  he  settled  in  London,  and  in  the 
same  year  produced  his  ERROURS  OF  ECSTACIE  (a  dialogue  with  the  moon), 
which  was  no  doubt  written  in  Ireland.  Then  followed  THE  LABOURS  OF 
IDLENESS  (prose  and  verse)  by  Guy  Penseval,  1826  ;  SYLVIA,  a  fairy 
drama,  in  1827  ;  and  NEPENTHE,  an  indescribable  rhapsody,  in  1839. 
1840  and  1841  saw  respectively  the  publication  of  two  tragedies,  THOMAS 
A  BECKET  and  ETHELS  IAN,  dramas  in  which  the  light  of  poetry  plays  but 
fitfully.  He  died  in  London  in  1846. 


60  BOOK  II 


A  memorial  volume  of  his  poems  containing  several  till  then  unprinted 
pieces  has  been  published  for  private  circulation  by  R.  and  M.  J. 
Livingstone  (A.  Holden,  Church  Street,  Liverpool). 

From  NEPENTHE 

OVER  hills  and  uplands  high 

Hurry  me,  Nymphs  !  O  hurry  me  ! 

Where  green  Earth  from  azure  sky 
Seems  but  one  blue  step  to  be  ; 

Where  the  Sun  in  wheel  of  gold 

Burnishes  deeply  in  her  mould, 

And  her  shining  walks  uneven 

Seem  declivities  of  Heaven. 

Come  !  where  high  Olympus  nods, 

Ground-sill  to  the  hill  of  Gods  ! 

Let  me  through  the  breathless  air 

Soar  insuperable,  where 

Audibly  in  mystic  ring 

The  angel  orbs  are  heard  to  sing  ; 

And  from  that  bright  vantage  ground, 

Viewing  nether  heaven  profound, 

Mark  the  eagle  near  the  sun 

Scorching  to  gold  his  pinions  dun  ; 

With  fleecy  birds  of  paradise 

Upfloating  to  their  native  skies  ; 

Or  hear  the  wild  swans  far  below 

Faintly  whistle  as  they  row 

Their  course  on  the  transparent  tide 

That  fills  the  hollow  welkin  wide. 

HYMN  TO  THE  SUN 

BEHOLD  the  world's  great  wonder, 

The  Sovereign  Star  arise  ! 
'Midst  Ocean's  sweet  dead  thunder, 

Earth's  silence  and  the  skies. 

The  sea's  rough  slope  ascending, 

He  steps  in  all  his  beams, 
Each  wave  beneath  him  bending 

His  throne  of  glory  seems. 


GEORGE  DARLEY  61 


Of  red  clouds  round  and  o'er  him 

His  canopy  is  roll'd, 
The  broad  ooze  burns  before  him, 

A  field  of  cloth  of  gold. 

Now  strike  his  proud  pavilion  ! 

He  mounts  the  blue  sublime, 
And  throws  in  many  a  million 

His  wealth  from  clime  to  clime. 

TRUE  LOVELINESS1 

IT  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 
A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 

Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 
Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed. 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks, 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers, 

These  are  but  gauds.     Nay,  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream, 
Whose  brink,  when  your  adventurer  slips, 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youths  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardour  burn  ; 

Poison  can  breathe,  that  erst  perfumed  ; 
There's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn 

With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 


1  In  the  first  edition  of  the  GOLDEN  TREASURY  this  poem  was  printed 
as  anonymous  among  the  seventeenth-century  writers  in  Book  II. 


62  BOOK  II 


For  crystal  brows  there's  nought  within, 
They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride  ; 

He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 
Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  beauty's  bust, 
A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 

Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust, 
Yet  never  linked  with  error  find— 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 

Like  the  care-burthened  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose. 

My  earthly  comforter  !  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be, 
That  when  my  spirit  wonn'd  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay  for  sympathy. 


THE  FALLEN  STAR 

A  STAR  is  gone  !  a  star  is  gone  ! 

There  is  a  blank  in  Heaven, 
One  of  the  cherub  choir  has  done 

His  airy  course  this  even. 

He  sat  upon  the  orb  of  fire 

That  hung  for  ages  there, 
And  lent  his  music  to  the  choir 

That  haunts  the  nightly  air. 

But  when  his  thousand  years  are  passed 

With  a  cherubic  sigh 
He  vanished  with  his  car  at  last — 

For  even  cherubs  die  ! 

Hear  how  his  angel-brothers  mourn — 
The  'minstrels  of  the  spheres — 

Each  chiming  sadly  in  his  turn 
And  dropping  splendid  tears. 


GEORGE  DARLEY  63 


The  planetary  sisters  all 

Join  in  the  fatal  song, 
And  weep  this  hapless  brother's  fall 

Who  sang  with  them  so  long. 

But  deepest  of  the  choral  band 

The  Lunar  Spirit  sings, 
And  with  a  bass-according  hand 

Sweeps  all  her  sullen  strings. 

From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  dome 

Where  sleepless  Uriel  lies 
His  rude  harmonic  thunders  come 

Mingled  with  mighty  sighs. 

The  thousand  car-borne  cherubim 

The  wandering  Eleven, 
All  join  to  chant  the  dirge  of  him 

Who  fell  just  now  from  Heaven. 

From  THE  FIGHT  OF  THE  FORLORN 

THE  CHIEF  loquitur: 

BARD  !  to  no  brave  chief  belonging, 

Hath  green  Eire  no  defenders  ? 
See  her  sons  to  battle  thronging, 

Gael's  broad-swords  and  Ir's  bow-benders  ! 

Clan  Tir-oer  !  Clan  Tir-conel  ! 

Atha's  royal  sept  of  Connacht  ! 
Desmond  red  !  and  dark  O'Donel ! 

Fierce  O'More  !  and  stout  MacDonacht 

Hear  the  sounding  spears  of  Tara  * 

On  the  blue  shields  how  they  rattle  ! 
Hear  the  reckless  Lord  of  Lara 

Humming  his  short  song  of  battle  !  2 

1  Darley  has  a  note  deriving  '  Tara,'  originally  '  Teamur,'from  Teach- 
mor,  or  '  Great  House  ' — the  palace  of  the  Irish  Kings. 

2  This  phrase  evidently  refers  to  the  metrical  structure  of  the  Gaelic 
Rosg-catha,  or  battle-song. 


64  BOOK  II 


Ullin's  chief,  the  great  O'Nial, 

Sternly  with  his  brown  axe  playing, 

Mourns  for  the  far  hour  of  trial 
And  disdains  this  long  delaying  ! 

Gray  O'Ruark's  self  doth  chide  me, 
Thro'  his  iron  beard  and  hoary, 

Murmuring  in  his  breast  beside  me — 
'  On  to  our  old  fields  of  glory  ! ' 

Red-branch  crests,  like  roses  flaming, 
Toss  with  scorn  around  Hi-Dalian, 

Battle,  blood,  and  death  proclaiming — 
Fear'st  thou  still  for  Inisfallan  ? 


SAMUEL   LOVER 

THE  versatility  of  Lover  is  one  of  the  stock  examples  in  Irish 
biography,  and  it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  say  in  which  of  his 
various  capacities  he  best  succeeded.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  it  is  as  a  humorous  poet  that  he  ranks  highest.  He  has 
many  competitors  in  other  branches  of  intellectual  activity, 
but  there  are  very  few  indeed  who  can  be  placed  on  the  same 
level  as  a  humorist  in  verse.  His  work  as  a  miniature 
painter,  as  a  composer,  and  as  a  novelist,  excellent  as  it  is,  is 
likely  to  be  forgotten  long  before  such  racy  songs  as  '  Widow 
Machree,'  'Molly  Carew,'  'Barney  O'Hea,'  and  'Rory 
O'More,'  to  name  but  a  few  of  his  best-known  pieces,  have 
become  obsolete.  There  is  an  archness,  an  irresistible  gaiety 
in  these  effusions  to  which  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  parallel  even 
among  Irish  writers.  When  he  attempts  the  serious  or 
sentimental,  he  generally  fails  lamentably.  Humour  is  his 
most  legitimate  quality — he  is  the  arch-humorist  among  Irish 
poets.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  on  February  24,  1797,  and 
gave  early  indication  of  his  literary  and  musical  gifts,  to  the  an- 
noyance of  his  father,  a  worthy  stockbroker,  whose  intention  it 
was  to  train  him  in  business,  and  who  disliked  the  arts.  Finally 


SAMUEL   LOVER  65 

his  scruples  were  overcome,  but  the  result  was  a  permanent 
estrangement.  The  younger  Lover  began  his  career  as  a 
painter,  and  obtained  very  considerable  reputation  by  his 
admirable  miniatures  of  Paganini,  Thalberg,  and  others,  which 
were  declared  by  competent  judges  to  be  worthy  of  the  best 
professors  of  the  art.  Weakness  of  sight  compelled  him  to 
turn  to  another  means  of  livelihood,  and  he  wrote  many  clever 
short  stories,  afterwards  collected  together  in  the  two  volumes 
of  LEGENDS  AND  STORIES  OF  IRELAND.  Subsequently  he 
produced  the  longer  stories  known  to  most  readers  as  HANDY 
ANDY  ;  RORY  O'MoRE  ;  and  TREASURE  TROVE  :  OR,  HE 
WOULD  BE  A  GENTLEMAN.  These  were  illustrated  by  capital 
comic  etchings  of  his  own.  Meanwhile  his  songs,  nearly  three 
hundred  of  which  were  set  to  music  as  well  as  written  by 
himself,  extended  his  fame  far  and  wide.  His  more  ambitious 
poetical  efforts  are  weak,  and  the  same  thing  may  be  practically 
said  of  his  stories.  He  has  never  done  anything  in  fiction 
better  than  BARNEY  O'REARDON  THE  NAVIGATOR,  and  certainly 
his  richly  humorous  songs  are  the  only  tolerable  efforts  of  his 
Muse.  He  was  granted  a  Civil  List  pension  of  ioo/.  in  1856, 
and  after  a  long  and  prosperous  life  died  in  Jersey  on  July  6, 
1868.  In  person  he  was  almost  as  diminutive  as  his  country- 
men, Tom  Moore  and  Crofton  Croker  ;  and,  like  them,  he  was 
very  popular  with  all  who  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him. 

D.  J.  O  DONOGHUE. 

WIDOW  MACHREE 

WIDOW  MACHREE,  it's  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och  hone  1  Widow  Machree, 

Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty  black  gown, 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 

How  altered  your  air 

With  that  close  cap  you  wear, 

'Tis  destroying  your  hair 

That  should  be  flowing  free  ; 

Be  no  longer  a  churl 

Of  its  black  silken  curl, 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 


66  BOOK  II 


Widow  Machree,  now  the  summer  is  come, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree , 

When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty  look  glum  ? 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
See,  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares — 
Why,  even  the  bears 
Now  in  couples  agree — 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish — 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 

Widow  Machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 

To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 

Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 

To  each  other  belongs, 

While  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Full  of  family  glee  ! 

Yet  alone  with  your  cup, 

Like  a  hermit  you  sup, 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts  I've  towld, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 

But  you're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in  the  cowld  ? 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 

With  such  sins  on  your  head 

Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled, 

Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 

Without  thinking  to  see 

Some  ghost  or  some  sprite 

That  would  wake  you  at  night, 
Crying,  *  Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ! ' 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Machree, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 
And,  with  my  advice,  faith,  I  wish  you'd  take  me, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 


SAMUEL  LOVER  67 


You'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire  ; 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 
In  whisp'ring  to  me 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  you'd  me  near  your  heart, 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ! 

BARNEY  O'HEA 

Now  let  me  alone,  though  I  know  you  won't, 

Impudent  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

It  makes  me  outrageous 

When  you're  so  contagious, 
And  you'd  better  look  out  for  the  stout  Corney  Creagh  ; 

For  he  is  the  boy 

That  believes  I'm  his  joy, 
So  you'd  better  behave  yourself,  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

Impudent  Barney, 

None  of  your  blarney, 

Impudent  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

I  hope  you're  not  going  to  Bandon  Fair, 

For  indeed  I'm  not  wanting  to  meet  you  there, 

Impudent  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

For  Corney's  at  Cork, 

And  my  brother's  at  work, 
And  my  mother  sits  spinning  at  home  all  the  day, 

So  no  one  will  be  there 

Of  poor  me  to  take  care, 
So  I  hope  you  won't  follow  me,  Barney  O'Hea ! 

Impudent  Barney, 

None  of  your  blarney, 

Impudent  Barney  O'Hea ! 

But  as  I  was  walking  up  Bandon  Street, 

Just  who  do  you  think  that  myself  should  meet, 

But  impudent  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

He  said  I  looked  killin', 

I  called  him  a  villain, 

F2 


68  BOOK  II 


And  bid  him  that  minute  get  out  of  the  way 

He  said  I  was  joking, 

And  grinned  so  provoking, 
I  couldn't  help  laughing  at  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

Impudent  Barney, 

None  of  your  blarney, 

Impudent  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

He  knew  'twas  all  right  when  he  saw  me  smile, 
For  he  was  the  rogue  up  to  ev'ry  wile, 

Impudent  Barney  O'Hea  ! 

He  coaxed  me  to  choose  him, 

For  if  I'd  refuse  him 
He  swore  he'd  kill  Corney  the  very  next  day  ; 

So,  for  fear  'twould  go  further, 

And  just  to  save  murther, 
I  think  I  must  marry  that  madcap,  O'Hea  ! 

Bothering  Barney, 

'Tis  he  has  the  blarney 

To  make  a  girl  Mistress  O'Hea. 

RORY    O'MORE 

YOUNG  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  the  dawn  ; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 

*  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,'  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
Reproof  on  her  lips,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye  ; 

*  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about ; 
Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out.' 

'  Oh  !  jewel,'  says  Rory,  '  that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day, 
And  'tis  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,'  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

*  Indeed,  then,'  says  Kathleen,  'don't  think  of  the  like, 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike  ; 

The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound.' 

'  Faith,'  says  Rory,  '  I'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground.' 


SAMUEL  LOVER  69 


*  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry,  if  you  don't  let  me  go  ; 
Sure  I  dream  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so  ! } 
'  Oh  ! '  says  Rory,    that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 
For  dhrames  always  go  by  contrairies,  my  dear  ! 
Oh  !  jewel,  keep  dreaming  that  same  till  you  die, 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie  ; 
And  'tis  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,'  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

4  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  teaz'd  me  enough, 

Sure  I've  thrash'd,  for  your  sake,  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff ; 

And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a  baste, 

So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest.' 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 

And  he  look'd  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light, 

And  he  kiss'd  her  sweet  lips, — don't  you  think  he  was  right  ? 

'  Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  ;  you'll  hug  me  no  more  ; 

That's  eight  times  to-day  that  you've  kiss'd  me  before.' 

'  Then  here  goes  another,'  says  he,  '  to  make  sure, 

For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,'  says  Rory  O'More. 


CHARLES   JAMES   LEVER 

SCATTERED  through  Lever's  novels  are  numerous  songs,  often 
as  brilliant  and  racy  as  his  inimitable  prose.  Unlike  his  later 
prose,  however,  which  in  novels  like  THE  O'DoNOGHUE  and 
THE  KNIGHT  OF  GWYNNE  showed  a  power  responsive  to  the 
deepening  intellectual  interest  of  his  work,  his  verse,  when 
he  tried  to  be  serious,  rarely  achieved  more  than  senti- 
mentality. The  pieces  here  given  seem  as  good  as  things  of 
the  kind  can  be.  Their  gay  humour  is  irresistible,  and  their 
language  and  rhythm  are  handled  by  a  veritable  master  of  his 
craft. 

Lever  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1806,  and  was  the  son  of  an 
English  contractor.     He  graduated  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 


70  BOOK  II 


1827,  and  afterwards  became  an  M.D.  of  Louvain.  He  did 
much  journalistic  work  in  Dublin,  besides  practising  successfully 
as  a  physician,  and  edited  The  Dublin  University  Magazine— 
with  which  so  many  distinguished  Irish  men  of  letters  have 
been  connected— from  1842  to  1845.  He  received  a  Consular 
appointment  at  Spezzia  in  1858,  and  died  Consul  at  Trieste 
in  1872. 

LARRY  M'HALE 

OH,  Larry  M'Hale  he  had  little  to  fear, 

And  never  could  want  when  the  crops  didn't  fail  ; 
He'd  a  house  and  demesne  and  eight  hundred  a  year, 

And  a  heart  for  to  spend  it,  had  Larry  M'Hale  ! 
The  soul  of  a  party,  the  life  of  a  feast, 

And  an  illigant  song  he  could  sing,  I'll  be  bail ; 
He  would  ride  with  the  rector,  and  drink  with  the  priest, 

Oh  !  the  broth  of  a  boy  was  old  Larry  M'Hale. 

It's  little  he  cared  for  the  Judge  or  Recorder ; 

His  house  was  as  big  and  as  strong  as  a  gaol ; 
With  a  cruel  four-pounder  he  kept  in  great  order 

He'd  murder  the  country,  would  Larry  M'Hale. 
He'd  a  blunderbuss  too  ;  of  horse-pistols  a  pair  ! 

But  his  favourite  weapon  was  always  a  flail ; 
I  wish  you  could  see  how  he'd  empty  a  fair, 

For  he  handled  it  nately,  did  Larry  M'Hale. 

His  ancestors  were  kings  before  Moses  was  born, 

His  mother  descended  from  great  Grana  Uaile  : 
He  laughed  all  the  Blakes  and  the  Frenches  to  scorn  ; 

They  were  mushrooms  compared  to  old  Larry  M'Hale. 
He  sat  down  every  day  to  a  beautiful  dinner, 

With  cousins  and  uncles  enough  for  a  tail ; 
And,  though  loaded  with  debt,  oh  !  the  devil  a  thinner 

Could  law  or  the  sheriff  make  Larry  M'Hale. 

With  a  larder  supplied  and  a  cellar  well  stored, 

None  lived  half  so  well,  from  Fair-Head  to  Kinsale  ; 

As  he  piously  said,  '  I've  a  plentiful  board, 

And  the  Lord  He  is  good  to  old  Larry  M'Hale.' 


CHARLES  JAMES  LEVER  71 

* 


So  fill  up  your  glass,  and  a  high  bumper  give  him, 
It's  little  we'd  care  for  the  tithes  or  Repale  ; 

For  Ould  Erin  would  be  a  fine  country  to  live  in, 
If  we  only  had  plenty  like  LARRY  M'HALE. 

THE  WIDOW  MALONE 

DID  ye  hear  of  the  widow  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
-  Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 

Alone  ? 

Oh  !  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts — 
So  lovely  the  widow  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
So  lovely  the  widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score 

Or  more  ; 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store  ; 

From  the  minister  down 
To  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown, 
All  were  courting  the  widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
All  were  courting  the  widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 
'Twas  known 

No  one  ever  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone ! 

Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 

They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye — 

So  bashful  the  widow  Malone, 
Ohone  ! 

So  bashful  the  widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Mr.  O'Brien  from  Clare- 
How  quare  ! 

It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there — 


72  BOOK  II 


Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 

Took  ten  kisses  at  laste — 

'  Oh,'  says  he,  '  you're  my  Molly  Malone — 

My  own  !' 
'  Oh,'  says  he,  '  you're  my  Molly  Malone  ! ' 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye  ! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh  — 

For  why  ? 

But,  '  Lucius,'  says  she, 
'  Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 
You  may  marry  your  Molly  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
You  may  marry  your  Molly  Malone.' 

There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 
Not  wrong, 

And,  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 
But  strong  : 

If  for  widows  you  die, 

Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh, 

For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone ! 
Ohone  ! 

Oh  !  they're  very  like  Mistress  Malone  ! 


FRANCIS   SYLVESTER   MAHONY 
('FATHER   PROUT') 

THE  well-known  scholar  and  wit  was  born  in  Cork  in  1804,  and 
died  in  Paris  on  May  18,  1866.  He  became  a  Jesuit  priest, 
but  concerned  himself  more  with  literature  and  journalism  than 
with  a  religious  calling.  He  wrote  the  famous  '  Reliques  of 
Father  Prout '  for  Prater's  Magazine,  and  afterwards  became 
Roman  correspondent  of  The  Daily  Neivs  and  Paris 
correspondent  of  The  Globe.  Most  of  his  writings  have  been 
collected.  The  following  is  his  nearest  approach  to  poetry  : 


< FATHER  PROUT'  73 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON 

WITH  deep  affection  and  recollection 
I  often  think  of  the  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder,  where'er  I  wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee  ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine  ; 
While  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 

But  all  their  music  spoke  nought  to  thine  ; 
For  memory  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  tolling  '  old  Adrian's  mole '  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 
With  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious 

In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame  ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly. 
Oh  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow,  while  on  tower  and  Kiosko 

In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air  calls  men  to  prayer 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  'em, 
But  there's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me : 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


74  BOOK  II 


JOHN   FRANCIS   WALLER 

BORN  in  Limerick  in  1809,  and  graduated  LL.D.  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  in  1852.  He  was  called  to  the  Irish  Bar, 
but  mainly  occupied  himself  with  literature.  He  wrote  much 
verse  and  prose. for  The  Dublin  University  Magazine,  which 
he  edited  for  a  time,  and  received  an  official  appointment  in 
Dublin  in  1867.  He  has  written  many  poems,  including  some 
excellent  lyrics,  and  is  also  the  author  and  editor  of  other  works. 
His  poems  are  to  be  found  in  five  different  volumes — RAVENS- 
CROFT  HILL,  1852  ;  THE  DEAD  BRIDAL,  1854  ;  POEMS,  1854; 
OCCASIONAL  ODES,  1864  ;  PETER  BROWN,  1872. 

THE  SPINNING- WHEEL 

MELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning, 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning  ; 

Bent  o'er  the  fire  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 

Is  crooning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting  : — 

*  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping.' 

'  'Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping.' 

'  Eily,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing.' 

"Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dying.' 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noiselessly  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  wheel,  while  the  foot's  stirring  ; 

Sprightly,  and  brightly,  and  airily  ringing 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

4  What's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  window,  I  wonder  ? ' 
'  'Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under.' 
'  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your  stool  on, 
And  singing,  all  wrong,  that  old  song  of  "  The  Coolun  "  ?  ' 
There's  a  form  at  the  casement— the  form  of  her  true  love — 
And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  '  I'm  waiting  for  you,  love  ; 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly, 
We'll  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon's  shining  brightly 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noiselessly  whirring,  &c. 


JOHN  FRANCIS    WALLER  75 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lips  lays  her  fingers, 
Steals  up  from  her  seat — longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers  ; 
A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother, 
Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with  the  other. 
Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round, 
Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound  ; 
Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 
The  maid  steps — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 
Slower — and  slower — and  slower  the  wheel  swings  ; 
'  Lower — and  lower — and  lower  the  reel  rings  ; 
Ere   the   reel   and   the   wheel   stopped   their  ringing   and 

moving, 

Through  the  grove   the   young  lovers  by  moonlight   are 
roving. 


KITTY  NEIL 

AH,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that  wheel, 

Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from  spinning. 
Come,  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore-tree ; 

Half  the  parish  is  there,  and  the  dance  is  beginning. 
The  sun  is  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest  moon 

Shines  sweetly  and  cool  in  the  dew-whitened  valley  ; 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft  loving  things 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green-shaded  alley. 

With  a  blush  and  a  smile  Kitty  rose  up  the  while, 

Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair,  glancing  ; 
'Tis  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sues — 

So  she  couldn't  but  choose  to  go  off  to  the  dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  couples  are  seen, 

Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of  his  choosing ; 
And  Pat  without  fail  leads  out  sweet  Kitty  Neil— 

Somehow,  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought  of  refusing. 

Now  Felix  Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his  knee, 
And  with  flourish  so  free  sets  each  couple  in  motion  ; 

With  a  cheer  and  a  bound  the  boys  patter  the  ground, 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on  the  ocean, 


76  BOOK  II 


Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose,  feet  light  as  the  doe's, 
Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing  ; 

Search  the  world  all  around,  from  the  sky  to  the  ground, 
No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an  Irish  lass  dancing. 

Sweet  Kate,  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes  of  deep  blue, 

Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  lashes  so  mildly, 
Your  fair-turned  arm,  heaving  breast,  rounded  form, 

Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses  throb  wildly  ? 
Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 

Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful,  yet  sweet  love ; 
The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries  with  a  sigh, 

*  Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your  feet,  love.' 


WILLIAM   CARLETON 

THE  great  Irish  novelist  was  born  at  Prillisk,  County  Tyrone, 
in  1794  ;  the  son  of  a  small  farmer.  He  was  educated  chiefly 
by  one  Patrick  Frayne,  whose  unfading  portrait  as  Mat 
Kavanagh  was  afterwards  drawn  in  '  The  Hedge  School.'  He 
was  at  first,  like  many  of  the  clever  sons  of  Irish  peasant 
families,  intended  for  the  priesthood.  The  experiences  of  his 
schooldays,  the  story  how  he  became  a  Ribbonman,  the 
Orange  and  Catholic  disturbances,  the  merry-makings  of  the 
people,  Carleton's  fights,  loves,  early  marriage,  and  adventures 
in  search  of  education  and  livelihood,  are  told  in  his  own 
inimitable  manner  in  the  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  lately  edited  by 
Mr.  D.  J.  O'Donoghue.  Having  become  a  Protestant,  he 
made  his  debut  in  literature  as  a  contributor  of  stories  of 
Irish  peasant  life  to  The  Christian  Examiner,  lately  started  by 
Caesar  Otway.  He  contributed  a  few  poems  to  the  same 
magazine.  'Sir  Turlough'  appeared  in  1839  in  The  National 
Magazine,  edited  by  Charles  Lever.  After  a  life  in  which 
there  was  much  of  gaiety,  much  of  gloom,  and  in  spite  of  his 
literary  success  much  struggle  with  penury,  he  died,  famous 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  77 


and  beloved,  in   1869.     Since  1848  he  had  been  in  receipt  of 
a  Civil  List  penson  of  2oo/.  a  year. 

4 

SIR  TURLOUGH  ;  OR,  THE  CHURCHYARD  BRIDE  l 

In  the  churchyard  of  Erigle  Truagh,  in  the  barony  of  Truagh,  County 
Monaghan,  there  is  said  to  be  a  Spirit  which  appears  to  persons  whose  families 
are  there  interred.  Its  appearance,  which  is  generally  made  in  the  following 
manner,  is  uniformly  fatal,  being  an  omen  of  death  to  those  who  are  so  un- 
happy as  to  meet  with  it.  When  a  funeral  takes  place,  it  watches  the  person 
who  remains  last  in  the  graveyard,  over  whom  it  possesses  a  fascinating  influ- 
ence. If  the  loiterer  be  a  young  man,  it  takes  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  female, 
inspires  him  with  a  charmed  passion,  and  exacts  a  promise  to  meet  in  the 
churchyard  on  a  month  from  that  day  ;  this  promise  is  sealed  by  a  kiss,  which 
communicates  a  deadly  taint  to  the  individual  who  receives  it.  It  then  dis- 
appears, and  no  sooner  does  the  young  man  quit  the  churchyard  than  he  remem- 
bers the  history  of  the  spectre  -  which  is  well  known  in  the  parish  —  sinks  into 
despair,  dies,  and  is  buried  in  the  place  of  appointment  on  the  day  when  the 
promise  was  to  have  been  fulfilled.  If,  on  the  contrary,  it  appears  to  a  female, 
it  assumes  the  form  of  a  young  man  of  exceeding  elegance  and  beauty.  Some 
years  ago  I  was  shown  the  grave  of  a  young  person,  about  eighteen  years  of  age, 
who  was  said  to  have  fallen  a  victim  to  it :  and  it  is  not  more  than  ten  months 
since  a  man  in  the  same  parish  declared  that  he  gave  the  promise  and  the  fatal 
kiss,  and  consequently  looked  upon  himself  as  lost.  He  took  a  fever,  died,  and 
was  buried  on  the  day  appointed  for  the  meeting,  which  was  exactly  a  month 
from  that  of  the  interview.  There  are  several  cases  of  the  same  kind  men- 
tioned, but  the  two  now  alluded  to  are  the  only  ones  that  came  within  my  per- 
sonal knowledge.  It  appears,  however,  that  the  spectre  does  not  confine  its 
operations  to  the  churchyard,  as  there  have  been  instances  mentioned  of  its 
appearance  at  weddings  and  dances,  where  it  never  failed  to  secure  its  victims 
by  dancing  them  into  pleuritic  fevers.  I  am  unable  to  say  whether  this  is  a 
strictly  local  superstition,  or  whether  it  is  considered  peculiar  to  other  church- 
yards in  Ireland  or  elsewhere.  In  its  female  shape  it  somewhat  resembles  the 
Elle  maids  of  Scandinavia  ;  but  I  am  acquainted  with  no  account  of  fairies  or 
apparitions  in  which  the  sex  is  said  to  be  changed,  except  in  that  of  the  Devil 
himself.  The  country  people  say  it  is  Death. — Author 's  note. 

The  bride  she  bound  her  golden  hair — 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  her  step  was  light  as  the  breezy  air 
When  it  bends  the  morning  flowers  so  fair, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

1  'The  "  Sir  Turlough  "  of  Carleton  is  perhaps  the  most  successful 
legendary  ballad  of  modern  times.' — Mr.  Theodore  Martin,  in  The  Dublin 
University  Magazine,  1839. 


78  BOOK  II 


And  oh,  but  her  eyes  they  danc'd  so  bright, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

As  she  longed  for  the  dawn  of  to-morrow's  light, 
Her  bridal  vows  of  love  to  plight, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  bridegroom  is  come  with  youthful  brow, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
To  receive  from  his  Eva  her  virgin  vow  ; 
'Why  tarries  the  bride  of  my  bosom  now?' 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

A  cry  !  a  cry  ! — 'twas  her  maidens  spoke, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
t  Your  bride  is  asleep — she  has  not  awoke  ; 
And  the  sleep  she  sleeps  will  be  never  broke,' 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Sir  Turlough  sank  down  with  a  heavy  moan, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy! 

And  his  cheek  became  like  the  marble  stone — 
'  Oh,  the  pulse  of  my  heart  is  for  ever  gone  ! 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  keen  is  loud  ;  it  comes  again, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  / 
And  rises  sad  from  the  funeral  train, 
As  in  sorrow  it  winds  along  the  plain, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

And  oh,  but  the  plumes  of  white  were  fair 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
When  they  flutter'd  all  mournful  in  the  air, 
As  rose  the  hymn  of  the  requiem  prayer, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

There  is  a  voice  but  one  can  hear, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  / 
And  it  softly  pours,  from  behind  the  bier, 
Its  note  of  death  on  Sir  Turlough's  ear, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  79 


The  keen  is  loud,  but  that  voice  is  low, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  it  sings  its  song  of  sorrow  slow, 
And  names  young  Turlough's  name  with  woe 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Now  the  grave  is  closed,  and  the  mass  is  said, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  the  bride  she  sleeps  in  her  lonely  bed, 
The  fairest  corpse  among  the  dead, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  wreaths  of  virgin-white  are  laid, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
By  virgin  hands,  o'er  the  spotless  maid  ; 
And  the  flowers  are  strewn,  but  they  soon  will  fade, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

'  Oh  !  go  not  yet — not  yet  away, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy! 
Let  us  feel  that  life  is  near  our  clay,' 
The  long-departed  seem  to  say, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

But  the  tramp  and  the  voices  of  life  are  gone, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  beneath  each  cold  forgotten  stone 
The  mouldering  dead  sleep  all  alone, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

But  who  is  he  that  lingereth  yet  ? 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
The  fresh  green  sod  with  his  tears  is  wet 
And  his  heart  in  the  bridal  grave  is  set, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Oh,  who  but  Sir  Turlough,  the  young  and  brave 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Should  bend  him  o'er  that  bridal  grave, 
And  to  his  death-bound  Eva  rave  ? 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


8o  BOOK  II 


*  Weep  not— weep  not,'  said  a  lady  fair, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  / 
'  Should  youth  and  valour  thus  despair, 
And  pour  their  vows  to  the  empty  air  ? ' 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

There's  charmed  music  upon  her  tongue, 

Killeevy ',  O  Killeevy  ! 

Such  beauty — bright,  and  warm  and  young- 
Was  never  seen  the  maids  among, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

A  laughing  light,  a  tender  grace, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy! 
Sparkled  in  beauty  around  her  face, 
That  grief  from  mortal  heart  might  chase, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

*  The  maid  for  whom  thy  salt  tears  fall, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Thy  grief  or  love  can  ne'er  recall  ; 
She  rests  beneath  that  grassy  pall, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

*  My  heart  it  strangely  cleaves  to  thee, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  / 
And  now  that  thy  plighted  love  is  free 
Give  its  unbroken  pledge  to  me, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 

The  charm  is  strong  upon  Turlough's  eye, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy! 
His  faithless  tears  are  already  dry, 
And  his  yielding  heart  has  ceased  to  sigh, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

*  To  thee,'  the  charmed  chief  replied, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
'  I  pledge  that  love  o'er  my  buried  bride  ; 
Oh  !  come,  and  in  Turlough's  hall  abide, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  81 

Again  the  funeral  voice  came  o'er 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
The  passing  breeze,  as  it  wailed  before, 
And  streams  of  mournful  music  bore, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

c  If  I  to  thy  youthful  heart  am  dear, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

One  month  from  hence  thou  wilt  meet  me  here 
Where  lay  thy  bridal  Eva's  bier, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 

He  pressed  her  lips  as  the  words  were  spoken, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

And  his  banshee's  wail — now  far  and  broken — 
Murmured  '  Death,'  as  he  gave  the  token 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

*  Adieu  !  adieu  ! '  said  the  lady  bright, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
And  she  slowly  passed  like  a  thing  of  light, 
Or  a  morning  cloud,  from  Sir  Turlough's  sight, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Now  Sir  Turlough  has  death  in  every  vein, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

And  there's  fear  and  grief  o'er  his  wide  domain, 
And  gold  for  those  who  will  calm  his  brain, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

'  Come,  haste  thee,  leech  ;  right  swiftly  ride, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

Sir  Turlough  the  brave,  Green  Truagha's  pride, 
Has  pledged  his  love  to  the  churchyard  bride, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 

The  leech  groaned  loud  :  *  Come,  tell  me  this, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy! 
By  all  thy  hopes  of  weal  and  bliss, 
Has  Sir  Turlough  given  the  fatal  kiss 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy?' 

G 


82  BOOK  II 


1  The  banshees  cry  is  loud  and  long, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  f 
At  eve  she  weeps  her  funeral  song, 
And  it  floats  on  the  twilight  breeze  along, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 

'  Then  the  fatal  kiss  is  given.     The  last 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Of  Turlough's  race  and  name  is  past ; 
His  doom  is  seal'd,  his  die  is  cast, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 

'  Leech,  say  not  that  thy  skill  is  vain  ; 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Oh,  calm  the  power  of  his  frenzied  brain, 
And  half  his  lands  thou  shalt  retain, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy.' 

The  leech  has  failed,  and  the  hoary  priest, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
With  pious  shrift  his  soul  released, 
And  the  smoke  is  high  of  his  funeral  feast, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  shanachies  now  are  assembled  all, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

And  the  songs  of  praise,  in  Sir  Turlough's  hall, 
To  the  sorrowing  harp's  dark  music  fall, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

And  there  is  trophy,  banner,  and  plume, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 

And  the  pomp  of  death,  with  its  darkest  gloom, 
O'ershadows  the  Irish  chieftain's  tomb, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  month  is  clos'd,  and  Green  Truagha's  pride, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy  ! 
Is  married  to  death— and,  side  by  side, 
He  slumbers  now  with  his  churchyard  bride, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


WILLIAM  CARLE  TON  83 


A  SIGH  FOR  KNOCKMANY 

TAKE,  proud  ambition,  take  thy  fill 

Of  pleasures  won  through  toil  or  crime  ; 
Go,  learning,  climb  thy  rugged  hill, 

And  give  thy  name  to  future  time. 
Philosophy,  be  keen  to  see 

Whate'er  is  just,  or  false,  or  vain  ; 
Take  each  thy  meed,  but  oh,  give  me 

To  range  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Pure  was  the  breeze  that  fanned  my  cheek, 

As  o'er  Knockmany's  brow  I  went  ; 
When  every  lovely  dell  could  speak 

In  airy  music,  vision-sent. 
False  world,  I  hate  thy  cares  and  thee  ; 

I  hate  the  treacherous  haunts  of  men  ; 
Give  back  my  early  heart  to  me, 

Give  back  to  me  my  mountain  glen. 

How  light  my  youthful  visions  shone 

When  spanned  by  Fancy's  radiant  form  ! 
But  now  her  glittering  bow  is  gone, 

And  leaves  me  but  the  cloud  and  storm  ; 
With  wasted  form  and  cheek  all  pale, 

With  heart  long  seared  by  grief  and  pain, 
Dunroe,  I'll  seek  thy  native  gale, 

I'll  tread  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Thy  breeze  once  more  may  fan  my  blood, 

The  valleys  all  are  lovely  still ; 
And  I  may  stand  as  once  I  stood, 

In  lonely  musings  on  thy  hill. 
But  ah  !  the  spell  is  gone.     No  art 

In  crowded  town,  or  native  plain, 
Can  teach  a  crushed  and  breaking  heart 

To  pipe  the  songs  of  youth  again. 


G  2 


84  BOOK  II 


GERALD   GRIFFIN 

GERALD  GRIFFIN  l  was  born  in  1803  at  Limerick,  and  his 
youth  was  spent  not  far  from  the  Shannon,  at  Fairy  Lawn, 
Adare,  and  Pallas  Kenry.  The  historical  monuments  and 
memories  around  gave  direction  to  his  work,  and  the  pastoral 
calm  reappears  in  his  poetry.  Though  a  home-lover,  he  was 
adventurous.  At  twenty  he  went  to  London  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  letters,  inspired  by  the  success  of  Banim,  who 
befriended  him.  He  endured  privations  courageously  for 
some  years,  and  finally  got  anchorage  in  the  Press.  His 
principal  and  most  popular  works  are  his  novels,  one  of  which, 
THE  COLLEGIANS,  was  dramatised  by  Dion  Boucicault  and 
remains  a  favourite,  under  the  name  of  THE  COLLEEN  BAWN. 
He  himself  had  written  for  the  stage.  He  took  with  him  to 
London  a  piece  called  AGUIRE,  and  three  other  tragedies. 
GISIPPUS  survives.  Charles  Kean  read  it,  and  '  was  fully 
impressed  with  the  beauty  of  the  language  and  the  high  talent 
displayed  throughout,'  but  feared  for  its  success  as  an  acting 
play.  Macready,  however,  was  decidedly  favourable.  It  was 
warmly  received  when  produced  at  Drury  Lane  in  1842,  two 
years  after  the  author's  death.  In  Dublin  it  was  repeatedly 
acted  by  T.  C.  King,  with  great  effect.  It  belongs  to  the 
classic  school.  Had  he  given  to  the  stage  the  tragic  realities 
of  life  around  him,  such  as  he  gave  to  his  novels,  he  might 
have  formed  a  successful  national  drama.  His  riper  mind 
found  fresher  paths.  It  should  be  counted  to  him  that  he  was 
the  first  to  present  several  of  our  folk-customs,  tales,  and 
ancient  legends  in  English  prose.  In  poetry  his  longer  pieces 
fail  in  freshness,  vigour,  and  local  colour ;  they  are  conventional 
compositions,  carefully  worked,  with  pleasing  imagery  and 
pensive  reflections.  In  his  lyrics,  however,  where  his  native 
genius  is  free,  he  is  at  his  best,  impassioned  at  times  (though 
never  passionate),  tender,  delicate,  yet  strong  with  a  certain 

1  Rectl  O'Griobta  (O'Greeva). 


GERALD   GRIFFIN  85 


dramatic  grasp  of  his  subject.  There  is  a  curious  prudence, 
somewhat  Edgeworthian,  in  certain  of  his  verses,  which  controls 
passion  and  may  be  due  to  the  influence  of  a  Quaker  lady 
whose  friend  he  was.  Even  the  Shannon  suggests  that  he 
should  fulfil  his  appointed  course  'with  tranquil  breast  and 
ordered  will.'  The  tender  and  delicate  feeling  displayed  in 
'  A  Place  in  thy  Memory,  Dearest,'  '  Old  Times  !  Old  Times  ! ' 
'  I  love  my  Love  in  the  Morning,'  and  others  have  won  them  a 
wide  popularity.  He  also,  like  Callanan,  but  more  often  than 
he,  introduces  Gaelic  terms  and  lines  :  thus,  he  embodies  the 
old  ballad  refrain  of  'Siubal  a  niin  '  (Shule  Aroon)  in  'My 
Mary  of  the  Curling  Hair.'  *  Gile  machree '  (Brightness  of 
my  Heart)  is  his  most  characteristic  ballad.  '  Eileen  Aroon,' 
composed  after  an  Irish  model,  but  without  its  passion,  is 
perfect  of  its  kind,  and  was  a  prime  favourite  with  Tennyson. 
The  *  Sister  of  Charity '  is  a  paean  on  self-denial.  In  several 
poems,  such  as  '  Sleep  that  like  a  Couched  Dove,'  '  The 
Bridal  Wake,'  'The  Wake  without  a  Corpse,'  he  commemorates 
incidents  of  custom  and  folk-lore  not  yet  passed  away. 
'  Folta  volla '  and  *  O'Driscoll's  War-song '  show  his  more 
vigorous  moods.  In  '  Cead  Mile  Failte '  the  last  of  the 
pagan  Gael  welcome,  with  grave  pathos,  their  Christian 
supplanter.  His  love  of  Nature  and  aerial  fancy  are  shown  in 
*  Lines  to  a  Sea-gull  seen  off  the  Cliffs  of  Moher.'  Gerald 
Griffin  retired  in  1838  from  active  literary  work,  became  a 
Christian  Brother,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  teaching  of  the 
poor  ;  he  died  of  fever  in  1840,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-six, 
in  the  North  Monastery,  Cork,  where  he  lies  at  peace. 

GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

The  LIFE  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN  was  written  by  his  brother  (1842).  THE 
POETICAL  AND  DRAMATIC  WORKS  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN  was  published 
by  Duffy,  Dublin,  1895. 

GILE  MACHREE 
GILE  MACHREE, 
Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever  ; 


86  BOOK  II 


This  hearth's  our  own, 
Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  for  ever  ! 

When  T  was  poor, 
Your  father's  door 

Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover  ; 
WTith  care  and  pain 
I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 
I  said,  '  To  other  lands  I'd  roam, 

Where  fate  may  smile  on  me,  love  ; ' 
I  said,  '  Farewell,  my  own  old  home  ! ' 
And  I  said,  '  Farewell  to  thee,  love  ! ' 
Sing,  Gile  machree,  &c. 

I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 

Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover — 
I  know  a  spot, 
A  silent  cot, 

Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover, 
Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 

By  one  small  garden  only  ; 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 
And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely  ! 

Sing,  Gile  machree,  &c. 

I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 
True  hearts  to  curse 
With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven. 
But  then  I  said,  '  In  after  years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her, 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her.' 

Sing,  Gile  machree,  &c. 


GERALD  GRIFFIN  87 

Oh  no,  I  said, 
My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn,  for  ever 
That  heart  of  thine 
Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty — never. 
From  home  and  thee,  though  wandering  far, 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love  ; 
I'd  rather  live  in  endless  war 
Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love. 
Sing,  Gile  machree,  &c. 

Far,  far  away, 
By  night  and  day, 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure  ; 
And  golden  gains 
Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love  ; 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand, 
And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love. 

Sing,  Gile  machree, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever  ; 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  for  ever  ! 

CfiAD   MfLE   FAILTE,   ELIM  ! 
(SONG  FROM    '  THE   INVASION  ') 

CE"AD  mile  fdilte  !  child  of  the  Ithian  ! 

Cdad  milefdilte,  Elim  / 
Aisneach,  thy  temple  in  ruins  is  lying, 
In  Druim  na  Druid  the  dark  blast  is  sighing. 
Lonely  we  shelter  in  grief  and  in  danger, 
Yet  have  we  welcome  and  cheer  for  the  stranger. 
Ctad  milefdilte  !  child  of  the  Ithian  / 
CJad  milefdilte,  Elim  ! 


BOOK  II 


Woe  for  the  weapons  that  guarded  our  slumbers, 
Tamreach,  they  said,  was  too  small  for  our  numbers  ; 
Little  is  left  for  our  sons  to  inherit, 
Yet,  what  we  have,  thou  art  welcome  to  share  it. 
Cead  milefdilte  !  child  of  the  Ithian  / 
Cead  milefdilte,  Elim  / 

Gorman,  thy  teachers  have  died  broken-hearted  ; 
Voice  of  the  Trilithon,  thou  art  departed  ! 
All  have  forsaken  our  mountains  so  dreary — 
All  but  the  spirit  that  welcomes  the  weary 
Ce"ad  milefdilte  !  child  of  the  Ithian  ! 
Cead  milefdilte,  Elim  ! 

Vainly  the  Draithe,  alone  in  the  mountain, 
Looks  to  the  torn  cloud  or  eddying  fountain  ; 
The  spell  of  the  Christian  has  vanquished  their  power, 
Yet  is  he  welcome  to  rest  in  our  bower. 
Ctad  mitefdilte  !  child  of  the  Ithian  ! 
Cead  milefdilte,  Elim  ! 

Wake  for  the  Christian  your  welcoming  numbers  ! 
Strew  the  dry  rushes  to  pillow  his  slumbers. 
Long  let  him  cherish,  with  deep  recollection, 
The  eve  of  our  feast,  and  the  Druids'  affection. 
Cead  milefdilte  !  child  of  the  Ithian! 
Cead  mile  fdilte,  Elim  / 

LINES   ADDRESSED   TO   A    SEAGULL,    SEEN   OFF   THE   CLIFFS 
OF    MOHER,    IN   THE   COUNTY   OF   CLARE 

WHITE  bird  of  the  tempest  !  O  beautiful  thing  ! 
With  the  bosom  of  snow  and  the  motionless  wing, 
Now  sweeping  the  billow,  now  floating  on  high, 
Now  bathing  thy  plumes  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 
Now  poising  o'er  ocean  thy  delicate  form, 
Now  breasting  the  surge  with  thy  bosom  so  warm, 
Now  darting  aloft  with  a  heavenly  scorn, 
Now  shooting  along  like  a  ray  of  the  morn, 
Now  lost  in  the  folds  of  the  cloud-curtained  dome, 
Now  floating  abroad  like  a  flake  of  the  foam, 


GERALD    GRIFFIN  89 


Now  silently  poised  o'er  the  war  of  the  main, 
Like  the  spirit  of  Charity  brooding  o'er  pain, 
Now  gliding  with  pinion  all  silently  furled, 
Like  an  angel  descending  to  comfort  the  world  ! 
Thou  seem'st  to  my  spirit,  as  upward  I  gaze, 
And  see  thee,  now  clothed  in  mellowest  rays, 
Now  lost  in  the  storm-driven  vapours  that  fly 
Like  hosts  that  are  routed  across  the  broad  sky, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  true  to  its  virtue  and  faith, 
'Mid  the  tempests  of  Nature,  of  passion,  and  death  ! 

Rise,  beautiful  emblem  of  purity,  rise  ! 

On  the  sweet  winds  of  heaven  to  thine  own  brilliant  skies  ; 

Still  higher — still  higher — till  lost  to  our  sight, 

Thou  hidest  thy  wings  in  a  mantle  of  light ; 

And  I  think,  how  a  pure  spirit  gazing  on  thee, 

Must  long  for  the  moment — the  joyous  and  free — 

When  the  soul  disembodied  from  nature  shall  spring 

Unfettered  at  once  to  her  Maker  and  King  ; 

When  the  bright  day  of  service  and  suffering  past, 

Shapes  fairer  than  thine  shall  shine  round  her  at  last, 

While,  the  standard  of  battle  triumphantly  furled, 

She  smiles  like  a  victor,  serene  on  the  world  ! 

THE  WAKE  OF  THE  ABSENT 

THE  dismal  yew  and  cypress  tall 

Wave  o'er  the  churchyard  lone, 
Where  rest  our  friends  and  fathers  all, 

Beneath  the  funeral  stone. 
Unvexed  in  holy  ground  they  sleep, 

Oh  !  early  lost  !  o'er  thee 
No  sorrowing  friend  shall  ever  weep, 

Nor  stranger  bend  the  knee. 

Mo  Chuma  ! l  lorn  am  I  ! 
Hoarse  dashing  rolls  the  salt  sea  wave 
Over  our  perished  darling's  grave. 


1  Mo  CJnima :  My  grief  ;  or,  Woe  is  me. 


90  BOOK  II 


The  winds  the  sullen  deep  that  tore 

His  death-song  chanted  loud, 
The  weeds  that  line  the  clifted  shore 

Were  all  his  burial  shroud. 
For  friendly  wail  and  holy  dirge. 

And  long  lament  of  love, 
Around  him  roared  the  angry  surge, 

The  curlew  screamed  above. 

Mo  Chuma  /  lorn  am  I  ! 
My  grief  would  turn  to  rapture  now, 
Might  I  but  touch  that  pallid  brow. 

The  stream-born  bubbles  soonest  burst 

That  earliest  left  the  source  ; 
Buds  earliest  blown  are  faded  first 

In  Nature's  wonted  course. 
With  guarded  pace  her  seasons  creep, 

By  slow  decay  expire  ; 
The  young  above  the  aged  weep, 

The  son  above  the  sire. 

Mo  Chuma  !  lorn  am  I  ! 
That  death  a  backward  course  should  hold, 
To  smite  the  young  and  spare  the  old. 

EILEEN  AROON  l 

When,  like  the  early  rose, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Beauty  in  childhood  blows, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
When,  like  a  diadem, 
Buds  blush  around  the  stem, 
Which  is  the  fairest  gem  ? 

Eileen  aroon  / 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye  ? 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Is  it  the  timid  sigh? 

Eileen  aroon  ! 


Eibhlin  a  rtiin  :  Eileen,  my  treasure. 


GERALD  GRIFFIN  91 


Is  it  the  tender  tone, 
Soft  as  the  stringed  harp's  moan  ? 
Oh  !  it  is  Truth  alone, 
Eileen  aroon  ! 

When,  like  the  rising  day, 

Eileen  aroon  / 
Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

What  makes  his  dawning  glow 
Changeless  through  joy  or  woe  ? — 
Only  the  constant  know, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

I  know  a  valley  fair, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
I  knew  a  cottage  there, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Far  in  that  valley's  shade 
I  knew  a  gentle  maid, 
Flower  of  a  hazel  glade, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

Who  in  the  song  so  sweet  ? 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Who  in  the  dance  so  fleet  ? 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

Dear  were  her  charms  tc  me, 
Dearer  her  laughter  free, 
Dearest  her  constancy, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

Youth  must  with  time  decay, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Beauty  must  fade  away, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Castles  are  sacked  in  war, 
Chieftains  are  scattered  far 
Truth  is  a  fixed  star, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 


92  BOOK  II 


,       JEREMIAH1   JOSEPH   CALLANAN 

CALLANAN'S  nature  was  sensitive,  scrupulous,  and  shifting,  if 
not  shiftless  :  a  Bohemian  of  a  good  type,  honourable  and 
refined.  Intended  for  the  priesthood  of  a  yet  unemancipated 
people,  he  withdrew  from  Maynooth  on  finding  himself  inapt ; 
then  he  gave  attention  to  medicine,  remained  a  student  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  for  two  years,  won  two  prizes  in  verse 
and  retired.  Some  fertile  years  he  spent  (  '  wasted,'  say 
biographers)  amid  the  romantic  mountains  of  West  Cork, 
which  were  the  true  university  that  moulded  his  mind  and 
endowed  it  with  the  seeds  of  enduring  life.  Here  his  living 
poetry  had  birth.  Other  years  he  passed  teaching  in  schools 
(one  being  that  of  Mr.  Maginn,  father  of  the  well-known 
writer),  and  the  last  two  of  his  existence  as  a  tutor  in  Lisbon, 
for  the  sake  of  its  milder  climate,  which  led  him  gently  to  death. 
Born  in  Cork  in  1795,  he  died  at  Lisbon  on  September  19, 
1829. 

It  was  inevitable,  perhaps,  that  the  influence  of  Byron 
should  suggest  and  shape  THE  RECLUSE  OF  INCHIDONY,  that  of 
Scott  THE  REVENGE  OF  DONAL  COMM,  and  that  of  Moore 
some  of  his  lyrics.  They  are  fine  compositions,  but  the  first 
fails  through  the  young  man's  non -knowledge  of  life's  greater 
agonies.  All  would  have  been  failure,  so  far  as  good  verse  may 
be,  had  he  not  known  Irish  and  drunk  at  the  high  head- 
fountains  of  his  race.  This  gave  his  genius  a  youth  and 
freedom  of  its  own.  To  this  we  owe  his  vigorous,  stirring,  and 
thoroughly  original  poem  on  '  Gougaune  Barra,'  with  its  resonant 
double-rimes,  so  characteristic  of  the  Gael.  His  pride  was  to 
have  awakened  the  ancient  harp  and  mingled  with  the  voice  of 
southern  waters  the  songs  that  even  Echo  had  forgotten,  he 
says,  invoking  the  *  Least  Bard  of  the  Hills.'  The  claim  was 

1  It  may  be  noted  that  *  Jeremiah '  is  for  some  slight  resemblance  in 
sound  the  English  form  into  which  the  Irish  peasantry  transpose  the 
Gaelic  name  «  Diarmuid. ' 


JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALL  A  NAN  93 


justified.  Moore  unquestionably  revived  the  spirit  of  Irish 
melody  and  first  infused  into  poetry  the  legends  of  the  land. 
It  is  Callanan's  distinction— a  great  one,  though  ignqred  till 
now —that  he  was  ihe  first  to  give  adequate  versions  of  Irish 
Gaelic  poems.  Compared  with  preceding  and  many  subse- 
quent attempts,  they  are  marvellously  close  and  true  to  their 
originals.  Take,  for  example,  the  passionate  vehemence  of  the 
'Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Bear,'  the  native  simplicity  of  'The  Girl  I 
love '  and  '  Brown  Drimin,'  the  strain  of  weirdness  in  '  The 
Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene,'  given  in  a  metre  unusual  in  English,  but 
known  in  Irish,  and  the  pure  ballad  pathos  of  '  The  Convict 
of  Clonmel.'  The  '  Lament  of  O'Gnive  '  is  a  paraphrase  and 
somewhat  Byronised  :  Ferguson's  more  faithful  rendering  is 
more  effective.  Callanan  was  among  the  first  (after  the  popular 
balladists)  to  introduce  a  Gaelic  refrain  into  English  poetry,  as 
witness  his  verses  entitled  'Tusa  ta  measg  na  reultan  mor' 
( '  Thou  who  art  among  the  greater  planets ' ).  He  is  not,  in- 
deed, one  of  the  greater  planets,  but  yet  shines  with  a  clear  light. 

GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

THE  RECLUSE  OF  INCHIDONY  was  published  in  1830,  and  a  volume 
of  collected  poems  in  1861,  since  when  there  have  been  several  reprints. 

DIRGE  OF  O'SULLIVAN  BEAR 
(FROM  THE  IRISH) 

One  of  the  Sullivans  of  Bearhaven,  who  went  by  the  mame  of  Morty  Oge, 
fell  under  the  vengeance  of  the  law.  He  had  long  been  a  very  popular 
character  in  the  wild  district  which  he  inhabited,  and  was  particularly  ob- 
noxious to  the  local  authorities,  who  had  good  reason  to  suspect  him  of  enlist- 
ing men  for  the  Irish  Brigade  in  the  French  service,  in  which  it  was  said  he  held  a 
captain's  commission.  Information  of  his  raising  these  '  wild  geese '  (the  name 
by  which  recruits  were  known)  was  given  by  a  Mr.  Puxley,  on  whom  in  conse- 
quence O'Sullivan  vowed  revenge,  which  he  executed  by  shooting  him  on 
Sunday  while  on  his  way  to  church.  This  called  for  the  interposition  of  the 
higher  powers,  and  accordingly  a  party  of  military  was  sent  round  from  Cork 
to  attack  O'Sullivan's  house.  He  was  daring  and  well  armed  ;  and  the  house 
was  fortified,  so  that  he  made  an  obstinate  defence.  At  last  a  confidential 
servant  of  his,  named  Scully,  was  bribed  to  wet  the  powder  in  the  guns  and 
pistols  prepared  for  his  defence,  which  rendered  him  powerless.  He  attempted 
to  escape,  but  while  springing  over  a  high  wall  in  the  rear  of  his  house  he 
received  a  mortal  wound  in  the  back.  They  tied  his  body  to  a  boat,  and 


94  BOOK  II 


dragged  it  in  that  manner  through  the  sea  from  Bearhaven  to  Cork,  where  his 
head  was  cut  off  and  fixed  on  the  county  gaol,  where  it  remained  for  several 
years.  Such  is  the  story  current  among  the  people  of  Bearhaven.  The  dirge 
is  supposed  to  have  been  the  composition  of  O'Sullivan's  aged  nurse. — Authors 
note. 

THE  sun  on  Ivera 

No  longer  shines  brightly, 
The  voice  of  her  music 

No  longer  is  sprightly, 
No  more  to  her  maidens 

The  light  dance  is  dear. 
Since  the  death  of  our  darling 

O'Sullivan  Bear. 

Scully  !  thou  false  one, 

You  basely  betrayed  him, 
In  his  strong  hour  of  need, 

When  thy  right  hand  should  aid  him  ; 
He  fed  thee— he  clad  thee— 

You  had  all  could  delight  thee  : 
You  left  him — you  sold  him — 

May  Heaven  requite  thee  ! 

Scully  !  may  all  kinds 

Of  evil  attend  thee  ! 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 

May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee  ! 
May  fevers  long  burn  thee, 

And  agues  long  freeze  thee  ! 
May  the  strong  hand  of  God 

In  His  red  anger  seize  thee  ! 

Had  he  died  calmly 

I  would  not  deplore  him, 
Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea- war  closed  o'er  him  ; 
But  with  ropes  round  his  white  limbs 

Through  ocean  to  trail  him, 
Like  a  fish  after  slaughter — 

'Tis  therefore  I  wail  him. 


JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN  95 

Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them  : 
Scully  that  sold  him, 

And  soldier  that  slew  him  ! 
One  glimpse  of  heaven's  light 

May  they  see  never  ! 
May  the  hearthstone  of  hell 

Be  their  best  bed  for  ever  ! 

In  the  hole  which  the  vile  hands 

Of  soldiers  had  made  thee, 
Unhonour'd,  unshrouded, 

And  headless  they  laid  thee ; 
No  sigh  to  regret  thee, 

No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee, 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee, 

No  friend  to  deplore  thee  ! 

Dear  head  of  my  darling, 

How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee, 

High  spiked  on  their  gaol ! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 

Ne'er  shall  grow  warm  ; 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light, 

But  the  flash  of  the  storm. 

A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 

Is  on  thy  green  water, 
From  the  haven  of  Cork 

To  Ivera  of  slaughter  : 
Since  thy  billows  were  dyed 

With  the  red  wounds  of  fear, 
Of  Muiertach  Oge, 

Our  O'Sullivan  Bear ! 


96  BOOK  II 


THE  CONVICT  OF  CLONMEL 
(FROM  THE  IRISH) 

HOW  hard  is  my  fortune, 

And  vain  my  repining  ! 
The  strong  rope  of  fate 

For  this  young  neck  is  twining. 
My  strength  is  departed, 

My  cheek  sunk  and  sallow, 
While  I  languish  in  chains 

In  the  gaol  of  Clonmala.1 

No  boy  in  the  village 

Was  ever  yet  milder. 
I'd  play  with  a  child, 

And  my  sport  would  be  wilder  ; 
I'd  dance  without  tiring 

From  morning  till  even, 
And  the  goal-ball  I'd  strike 

To  the  lightning  of  heaven. 

At  my  bed-foot  decaying, 

My  hurlbat  is  lying  ; 
Thro'  the  boys  of  the  village 

My  goal-ball  is  flying; 
My  horse  'mong  the  neighbours 

Neglected  may  fallow, 
While  I  pine  in  my  chains 

In  the  gaol  of  Clonmala. 

Next  Sunday  the  patron 

At  home  will  be  keeping, 
And  the  young  active  hurlers 

The  field  will  be  sweeping  ; 
With  the  dance  of  fair  maidens 

The  evening  they'll  hallow, 
While  this  heart,  once  so  gay, 

Shall  be  cold  in  Clonmala. 


Cluain  meala  ('  Field  of  honey ')  :  Irish  of  '  Clonmel. 


JERFMIAH  JOSEPH  C ALLAN  AN  97 


GOUGAUNE  BARRA 

THERE  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra, 
Where  Allua  of  songs  rushes  forth  as  an  arrow, 
In  deep-vallied  Desmond — a  thousand  wild  fountains 
Come  down  to  that  lake  from  their  home  in  the  mountains. 
There  grows  the  wild  ash,  and  a  time-stricken  willow 
Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow, 
As,  like  some  gay  child  that  sad  monitor  scorning, 
It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 

And  its  zone  of  dark  hills— oh  !  to  see  them  all  bright'ning, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  its  red  banner  of  lightning, 
And  the  waters  rush  down,  'mid  the  thunder's  deep  rattle 
Like  clans  from  the  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle  \ 
And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming, 
And  wildly  from  Mullagh  the  eagles  are  screaming, 
Oh  !  where  is  the  dwelling,  in  valley  or  highland, 
So  meet  for  a  bard  as  this  lone  little  island  ? 

How  oft  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clara, 

And  lit  the  dark  heath  on  the  hills  of  Ivera, 

Have  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home  by  the  ocean, 

And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion, 

And  thought  of  thy  bards  when,  assembling  together 

In  the  clefts  of  thy  rocks  or  the  depth  of  thy  heather, 

They  fled  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and  slaughter 

And  waked  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  water. 

High  sons  of  the  lyre,  oh  !  how  proud  was  the  feeling, 

To  think  while  alone  through  that  solitude  stealing, 

Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 

I  only  awoke  your  wild  harp  from  its  slumber, 

And  mingled  once  more  with  the  voice  of  those  fountains 

The  songs  even  Echo  forgot  on  her  mountains  ; 

And  glean'd  each  grey  legend  that  darkly  was  sleeping 

Where  the  mist  and  the  rain  o'er  their  beauty  were  creeping. 

Least  bard  of  the  hills  !  were  it  mine  to  inherit 
The  fire  of  thy  harp  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit, 


98  BOOK  II 


With  the  wrongs  which,  like  thee,  to  our  country  have  bound  me, 

Did  your  mantle  of  song  fling  its  radiance  around  me, 

Still,  still  in  those  wilds  might  young  Liberty  rally, 

And  send  her  strong  shout  over  mountain  and  valley, 

The  star  of  the  West  might  yet  rise  in  its  glory, 

And  the  land  that  was  darkest  be  brightest  in  story. 

I  too  shall  be  gone  ;  but  my  name  shall  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes  and  her  fetters  are  broken  ; 
Some  minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  eve's  gleaming,    ' 
When  Freedom's  young  light  on  his  spirit  is  beaming, 
And  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Whore  calm  Avon-Bwee  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
Or  plant  a  wild  wreath  from  the  banks  of  that  river 
O'er  the  heart  and  the  harp  that  are  sleeping  for  ever. 


THE  OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE 

FROM  THE   IRISH 

OH,  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen, 

That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt,  like  the  brewing  of  men. 

My  bed  was  the  ground,  my  roof  the  greenwood  above, 

And  the  wealth  that  I  sought,  one  fair  kind  glance  from  my  love. 

Alas  !  on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove  from  the  field, 
That  I  was  not  near  from  terror  my  angel  to  shield. 
She  stretched  forth  her  arms — her  mantle  she  flung  to  the  wind—- 
And swam  o'er  Loch  Lene  her  outlawed  lover  to  find. 

Oh,  would  that  a  freezing,  sleet-winged  tempest  did  sweep, 

And  I  and  my  love  were  alone  far  off  on  the  deep  ! 

I'd  ask  not  a  ship,  or  a  bark,  or  pinnace  to  save  ; 

With  her  hand  round  my  waist  I'd  fear  not  the  wind  or  the  wave. 

'Tis  down  by  the  lake  where  the  wild  tree  fringes  its  sides 
The  maid  of  my  heart,  the  fair  one  of  heaven,  resides  ; 
I  think  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  along 
The  birds  go  to  sleep  by  the  sweet,  wild  twist  of  her  song. 


EDWARD    WALSH  99 

EDWARD   WALSH 

EDWARD  WALSH  was  born  in  Londonderry,  1805,  and  became 
a  school-teacher.  He  was  appointed  a  schoolmaster  to  convicts 
on  Spike  Island,  and  died  in  1850.  When  John  Mitchel  was 
on  his  way  to  penal  servitude  at  the  Bermudas  he  stopped  at 
Spike  Island  and  saw  Walsh  there,  'a  tall  gentleman-like 
person  in  black  but  rather  over-worn  clothes.  ...  I  knew  his 
face,  but  could  not  at  first  remember  who  he  was;  he  was 
Edward  Walsh,  author  of  "  Mo  craoibhin  cno  "  and  other  sweet 
songs,  and  of  some  very  musical  translations  from  old  Irish 
ballads.  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  told  me  he  had 
contrived  to  get  an  opportunity  of  seeing  and  shaking  hands 
with  me  before  I  should  leave  Ireland.  ...  He  stooped  down 
and  kissed  my  hands.  "  Ah  !  "  said  he,  "  you  are  now  the  man 
of  all  Ireland  most  to  be  envied"  '  Mitchel  certainly  did  not 
envy  Walsh,  whose  life  was  a  constant  struggle  with  penury,  and 
who  must  have  found  a  daily  torture  in  the  cruelly  inappropriate 
employment  forced  on  his  fine  genius  and  sensitive  nature. 

Walsh's  chief  mission  as  a  poet  was  to  collect  and  make 
known  the  waifs  and  strays  of  Gaelic  poetry  preserved  among 
the  people.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  The  Nation  up 
to  1848,  but  is,  on  the  whole,  rather  to  be  ranged  with 
Callanan  in  this  book  than  placed  among  the  poets  whose  fame 
is  closely  identified  with  that  of  the  organ  of  Young  Ireland. 

RELIQUES  OF  IRISH  JACOBITE  POETRY,  1844 ;  IRISH  POPULAR 
SONGS,  with  translations  and  notes,  1847. 

Mo  CRAOIBHIN  CNO  l 

MY  heart  is  far  from  Liffey's  tide 

And  Dublin  town  ; 
It  strays  beyond  the  southern  side 

Of  Cnoc-maol-Donn,2 

1  Mo  craoibhin  cno  literally  means  '  my  cluster  of  nuts  ' ;  but  it  figura- 
tively signifies  '  my  nut-brown  maid. '    It  is  pronounced  Ma  Creeveen  Kno. 

2  Cnoc-maol-Donn  (the  «  brown  bare  hill '),  Knockmealdown  :  a  lofty 
mountain  between  the  county  of  Tipperary  and  that  of  Waterford,  com- 
manding a  glorious  prospect. 

H  2 


ioo  BOOK  II 


Where  Cappoquin  hath  woodlands  green, 

Where  Amhan-mhor's  l  waters  flow, 
Where  dwells  unsung,  unsought,  unseen, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno, 
Low  clustering  in  her  leafy  screen, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 
The  high-bred  dames  of  Dublin  town 

Are  rich  and  fair, 
With  wavy  plume,  and  silken  gown, 

And  stately  air  ; 
Can  plumes  compare  thy  dark  brown  hair  ? 

Can  silks  thy  neck  of  snow  ? 
Or  measur'd  pace,  thine  artless  grace, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno, 
When  harebells  scarcely  show  thy  trace, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ? 

I've  heard  the  songs  by  Liffey's  wave 

That  maidens  sung — 
They  sung  their  land  the  Saxon's  slave, 

In  Saxon  tongue. 
Oh  !  bring  me  here  that  Gaelic  dear 

Which  cursed  the  Saxon  foe, 
When  thou  didst  charm  my  raptured  ear, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 
And  none  but  God's  good  angels  near, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 

I've  wandered  by  the  rolling  Lee, 

And  Lene's  green  bowers  ; 
I've  seen  the  Shannon's  widespread  sea 

And  Limerick's  towers — 
And  Liffey's  tide,  where  halls  of  pride 

Frown  o'er  the  flood  below  ; 
My  wild  heart  strays  to  Amhan-mhor's  side, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  / 
With  love  and  thee  for  aye  to  bide, 

Mo  craoibhin  cno  ! 


1  Anihan-mhor  (the  '  Great  River  ') :  the  Blackwater,  which  flows  into 
the  sea  at  Youghal.     The  Irish  name  is  uttered  in  two  sounds  :  Oan-  Vore. 


EDWARD    WALSH  101 


HAVE  You  BEEN  AT  CARRiCK?1 

FROM   THE   IRISH 

HAVE  you  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  you  my  true-love  there, 
And  saw  you  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright  and  fair  ? 
Saw  you  the  most  fragrant,  flowery,  sweet  apple-tree  ? 
Oh  !  saw  you  my  loved  one,  and  pines  she  in  grief  like  me  ? 

*  I  have  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  thy  own  true-love  there  ; 
Arid  saw,  too,  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright  and  fair  ; 
And  saw  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,  sweet  apple-tree — 
I  saw  thy  loved  one  —she  pines  not  in  grief  like  thee.' 

Five  guineas  would  price  every  tress  of  her  golden  hair — 
Then  think  what  a  treasure  her  pillow  at  night  to  share  ! 
These  tresses  thick-clust'ring  and  curling  around  her  brow — 

0  Ringlet  of  Fairness  !  I'll  drink  to  thy  beauty  now  ! 

When,  seeking  to  slumber,  my  bosom  is  rent  with  sighs — 

1  toss  on  my  pillow  till  morning's  blest  beams  arise  ; 
No  aid,  bright  beloved  !  can  reach  me  save  God  above, 
For  a  blood-lake  is  formed  of  the  light  of  my  eyes  with  love  ! 

Until  yellow  autumn  shall  usher  the  Paschal  day, 
And  Patrick's  gay  festival  come  in  its  train  alway — 
Until  through  my  coffin  the  blossoming  boughs  shall  grow, 
My  love  on  another  I'll  never  in  life  bestow ! 

Lo  !  yonder  the  maiden  illustrious,  queen-like,  high, 
With  long-flowing  tresses  adown  to  her  sandal-tie — 
Swan,  fair  as  the  lily,  descended  of  high  degree, 
A  myriad  of  welcomes,  dear  maid  of  my  heart,  to  thee  ! 


1  The  translator  remarks  :  '  This  is  a  song  of  the  South,  but  there  are 
so  many  places  of  the  name  of  Carrick,  such. as  Carrick-on-Shannon, 
Carrick-on-Suir,  &c.,  that  I  cannot  fix  its  precise  locality.  In  this  truly 
Irish  song,  when  the  pining  swain  learns  that  his  absent  mistress  is  not 
love-sick  like  himself,  he  praises  the  beauty  of  her  copious  hair,  throws 
off  a  glass  to  her  health,  enumerates  his  sufferings,  and  swears  to  forego 
the  sex  for  ever ;  but  she  suddenly  bursts  upon  his  view,  his  resolves 
vanish  into  thin  air,  and  he  greets  his  glorious  maid.' 


102  BOOK  II 


THE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAY 

FROM   THE   IRISH 

An  extremely  close  rendering  of  the  beautiful  Gaelic  song,  Fdinne  geal  an 
Lae.  Contrary  to  his  usual  custom  Walsh  has  preserved  some  of  the  internal 
chimes  characteristic  of  Irish  verse  :  e.g.— 

'  At  early  dawn  I  once  had  been 
Where  Lene's  blue  waters  flow.' 

The  ancient  melody,  which  the  words  fit  so  well,  is  one  of  exquisite  tenderness 
and  wistfulness. 


AT  early  dawn  I  once  had  been 

Where  Lene's  blue  waters  flow, 
When  summer  bid  the  groves  be  green, 

The  lamp  of  light  to  glow. 
As  on  by  bower,  and  town,  and  tower, 

And  widespread  fields  I  stray, 
I  meet  a  maid  in  the  greenwood  shade 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

II 

Her  feet  and  beauteous  head  were  bare, 

No  mantle  fair  she  wore  ; 
But  down  her  waist  fell  golden  hair, 

That  swept  the  tall  grass  o'er. 
With  milking-pail  she  sought  the  vale, 

And  bright  her  charms'  display  ; 
Outshining  far  the  morning  star 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

Ill 

Beside  me  sat  that  maid  divine 
Where  grassy  banks  outspread. 

*  Oh,  let  me  call  thee  ever  mine, 

Dear  maid,'  I  sportive  said. 

*  False  man,  for  shame,  why  bring  me  blame  ? ' 

She  cried,  and  burst  away — 
The  sun's  first  light  pursued  her  flight 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 


EDWARD    WALSH  103 

LAMENT  OF  THE  MANGAIRE  SUGACH 

FROM  THE  IRISH 

Andrew  Magrath,  commonly  called  the  Mangaire  Sugach  (or  '  Jolly 
Merchant '),  having  been  expelled  from  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  for  his 
licentious  life,  offered  himself  as  a  convert  to  the  doctrines  of  Protestantism  , 
but,  the  Protestant  clergyman  having  also  refused  to  accept  him,  the  unfortu- 
nate Mangaire  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  this  lament.  —A  uthor's  note. 


BELOVED,  do  you  pity  not  my  doleful  case, 
Pursued  by  priest  and  minister  in  dire  disgrace? 
The  churchmen  brand  the  vagabond  upon  my  brow — 
Oh  !  they'll  take  me  not  as  Protestant  or  Papist  now  ! 

II 

The  parson  calls  me  wanderer  and  homeless  knave  ; 
And  though  I  boast  the  Saxon  creed  with  aspect  grave. 
He  says  that  claim  my  Popish  face  must  disallow, 
Although  I'm  neither  Protestant  nor  Papist  now  ! 

in 

He  swears  (and  oh,  he'll  keep  his  oath)  he's  firmly  bent 
To  hunt  me  down  by  penal  Acts  of  Parliament ; 
Before  the  law's  coercive  might  to  make  me  bow, 
And  choose  between  the  Protestant  and  Papist  now  ! 

IV 

The  priest  me  deems  a  satirist  of  luckless  lay, 
Whose  merchant-craft  hath  often  led  fair  maids  astray, 
And,  worse  than  hunted  fugitive  all  disavow, 
He'll  take  me  not  a  Protestant  or  Papist  now  ! 


That,  further,  I'm  a  foreigner  devoid  of  shame,     N 
Of  hateful,  vile,  licentious  life  and  evil  name  ; 
A  ranting,  rhyming  wanderer,  without  a  cow, 
Who  now  is  deem'd  a  Protestant — a  Papist  now  1 


104  BOOK  II 


VI 


Alas  !  it  was  not  charity  or  Christian  grace 
That  urged  to  drag  my  deeds  before  the  Scotic  race. 
What  boots  it  him  to  write  reproach  upon  my  brow, 
Whether  they  deem  me  Protestant  or  Papist  now  ? 


vil 


Lo  !  David,  Israel's  poet-king,  and  Magdalene, 
And  Paul,  who  of  the  Christian  creed  the  foe  had  been — 
Did  Heayen,  when  sorrow  fill'd  their  heart,  reject  their  vow 
Though  they  were  neither  Protestant  nor  Papist  now  ? 


VIII 


Oh  !  since  I  weep  my  wretched  heart  to  evil  prone, 
A  wanderer  in  the  paths  of  sin,  all  lost  and  lone, 
At  other  shrines  with  other  flocks  I  fain  must  bow. 
Who'll  take  me,  whether  Protestant  or  Papist,  now  ? 


IX 


Beloved,  whither  can  I  flee  for  peace  at  last, 

When  thus  beyond  the  Church's  pale  I'm  rudely  cast? 

The  Arian  creed,  or  Calvinist,  I  must  avow, 

When  severed  from  the  Protestant  and  Papist  now  ! 


THE  SUMMING-UP 


Lo,  Peter  th'  Apostle,  whose  lapses  from  grace  were  three, 
Denying  the  Saviour,  was  granted  a  pardon  free  ; 
O  God  !  though  the  Mangaire  from  him  Thy  mild  laws  cast, 
Receive  him,  like  Peter,  to  dwell  in  THY  HOUSE  at  last ! 


GEORGE   FOX 

GEORGE  Fox  was  born  in  Belfast;  graduated  in  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  1842  ;  and  not  long  after  went  to  America. 
Very  little  more  is  known  of  him  except  that  Ferguson  dedi- 
cated to  him  his  POEMS  of  1880:  'Georgio,  Amico,  Con- 
discipulo,  Instauratori.' 


GEORGE  FOX  105 


THE  COUNTY  OF  MAYO* 

FROM  THE   IRISH 

This  specimen  of  our  vernacular  literature,  written  to  a  beautiful  old 
melody,  is  one  of  the  most  popular  songs  of  the  peasantry  of  the  counties  of 
Mayo  and  Galway,  and  is  doubtless  a  composition  of  the  seventeenth  or  early 
eighteenth  century.  The  original  Irish  has  been  published  by  Mr.  Hardiman, 
in  his  IRISH  MINSTRELSY.  This  translation,  one  of  the  supremely  good  things 
in  that  line  of  literature,  was  first  published  by  Samuel  Ferguson  in  a  review 
of  Hardiman's  work  (Dublin  University  Magazine,  June  1834). 

ON  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in  woeful  plight, 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day  and  weeping  all  the  night. 
Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I  go, 
By  the  blessed  sun,  'tis  royally  I'd  sing  thy  praise,  Mayo. 

When  I  dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,  and  my  gold  did  much  abound, 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went  round. 
'Tis  a  bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  now  I'm  forced  to  go, 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my  own  Mayo. 


1  The  following  passage  from  an  article  by  Mr.  Standish  O'Grady 
appeared  in  The  All-Ireland  Review,  while  the  proofs  of  this  Anthology 
were  being  read.  It  seems  to  demand  quotation  here  : — 

*  Our  last  Irish  aristocracy  was  Catholic,  intensely  and  fanatically 
Royalist  and  Cavalier,  and  compounded  of  elements  which  were  Norman- 
Irish  and  Milesian-Irish.  They  worshipped  the  Crown  when  the  Crown 
had  become  a  phantom  or  a  ghost,  and  the  god  whom  they  worshipped 
was  not  able  to  save  them  or  himself.  They  were  defeated  and  exter- 
minated. They  lost  everything,  but  they  never  lost  honour  ;  and  because 
they  did  not  lose  that,  their  overthrow  was  bewailed  in  songs  and  music 
which  will  not  cease  to  sound  for  centuries  yet : 

"  Shaun  O'Dwyer  o'Glanna, 
We're  worsted  in  the  game." 

'  Worsted  they  were,  for  they  made  a  fatal  mistake  ;  and  they  had  to 
go  ;  but  they  carried  their  honour  with  them,  and  they  founded  noble  or 
princely  families  all  over  the  Continent. 

'  Who  laments  the  destruction  of  our  present  Anglo-Irish  aristocracy  ? 
Perhaps  in  broad  Ireland  not  one.  They  fail  from  the  land  while 
innumerable  eyes  are  dry,  and  their  fall  will  not  be  bewailed  in  one  piteous 
dirge  or  one  mournful  melody.' 


106  BOOK  II 


They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now  ;  'tis  proud  they're  grown  and 

high, 
With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots — for  I  pass  their  buckles 

by. 

But  it's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have  it  so, 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands,  and  leave  my  sweet  Mayo. 

'Tis  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  in  Irrul  still, 
And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon  the  Hill  ; 
And  that  Colonel  Hugh  MacGrady  should  be  lying  dead  and  low, 
And  I  sailing,  sailing  swiftly  from  the  county  of  Mayo. 


JOHN   BANIM 

JOHN  BANIM,  who  was  born  in  Kilkenny  on  April  3,  1798,  is 
chiefly  known  through  the  powerful  stories  *  by  the  O'Hara 
Family,'  which  he  wrote  in  conjunction  with  his  brother 
Michael ;  but  he  published  also  a  couple  of  volumes  of  verse 
— namely,  THE  CELT'S  PARADISE  :  a  Poem  in  Four  Duans 
(London,  1821)  and  CHAUNT  OF  THE  CHOLERA  :  Songs  for 
Ireland  (London,  1831).  His  tragedy,  DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS, 
was  also  published  in  London  in  1821. 

With  the  exception  of  one  or  two  lyrics,  these  volumes 
contain  nothing  worthy  of  note.  Where  his  songs  are 
at  all  tolerable,  they  are  full  of  fire  and  feeling,  and  written 
with  a  quite  natural  simplicity  and  strength.  Such  are  the 
pieces  here  quoted.  His  chief  fault  is  his  general  disregard  of 
metrical  laws. 

Banim's  health  failed  while  he  was  still  a  young  man,  and 
his  later  years  were  passed  in  pain  and  misery.  He  was 
granted  a  small  Civil  List  pension,  but  did  not  long  enjoy  it, 
dying  on  August  i,  1842.  His  '  Soggarth  Aroon  ' l  is  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  Irish  poems,  and  has  found  a  place  in 
many  anthologies. 

D.    J.    O'DONOGHUE. 
1  Sagart  (sacerdos)  a  riiin  :  Priest,  dear. 


JOHN  BANIM  107 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Old  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  not  slave  to  you 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 
Och  !  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  / 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin  door, 
And,  on  the  earthen  floor, 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  f 


io8  BOOK  II 


Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  arc  on? 
And  when  my  heart  was  dim 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Och,  you  and  only  you, 
Soggarth  aroon! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ; 
In  love  they'll  never  shake, 
When  for  Old  Ireland's  sake 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 
Soggarth  aroon  ! 


HE  SAID  THAT   HE  WAS  NOT   OUR   BROTHER 

This  ferocious  attack  was  provoked  by  some  utterances  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  about  Ireland. 

HE  said  that  he  was  not  our  brother — 

The  mongrel  !  he  said  what  we  knew. 
No,  Eire  !  our  dear  Island-mother, 

He  ne'er  had  his  black  blood  from  you  ! 
And  what  though  the  milk  of  your  bosom 

Gave  vigour  a-nd  health  to  his  veins  ? 
He  was  but  a  foul  foreign  blossom, 

Blown  hither  to  poison  our  plains  ! 

He  said  that  the  sword  had  enslaved  us — 

That  still  at  its  point  we  must  kneel. 
The  liar !—  though  often  it  braved  us, 

We  cross'd  it  with  hardier  steel  ! 
This  witness  his  Richard — our  vassal ! 
•  His  Essex — whose  plumes  we  trod  down  ! 
His  Willy — whose  peerless  sword-tassel 

We  tarnish'd  at  Limerick  town  ! 


JOHN  BANIM  109 


No  !  falsehood  and  feud  were  our  evils, 

While  force  not  a  fetter  could  twine. 
Come  Northmen — come  Normans— come  Devils  ! 

We  give  them  our  Sparth l  to  the  chine  ! 
And  if  once  again  he  would  try  us, 

To  the  music  of  trumpet  and  drum, 
And  no  traitor  among  us  or  nigh  us — 

Let  him  come,  the  Brigand  !  let  him  come  ! 

THE  IRISH  MOTHER  IN  THE  PENAL  DAYS 

Now  welcome,  welcome,  baby-boy,  unto  a  mother's  fears, 
The  pleasure  of  her  sufferings,  the  rainbow  of  her  tears, 
The  object  of  your  father's  hope,  in  all  he  hopes  to  do, 
A  future  man  of  his  own  land,  to  live  him  o'er  anew  ! 

How  fondly  on  thy  little  brow  a  mother's  eye  would  trace, 
And  in  thy  little  limbs,  and  in  each  feature  of  thy  face, 
His  beauty,  worth,  and  manliness,  and  everything  that's  his, 
Except,  my  boy,  the  answering  mark  of  where  the  fetter  is  ! 

Oh  !  many  a  weary  hundred  years  his  sires  that  fetter  wore, 
And  he  has  worn  it  since  the  day  that  him  his  mother  bore  ; 
And  now,  my  son,  it  waits  on  you,  the  moment  you  are  born, 
The  old  hereditary  badge  of  suffering  and  scorn  ! 

Alas,  my  boy  so  beautiful ! — alas,  my  love  so  brave  ! 
And  must  your  gallant  Irish  limbs  still  drag  it  to  the  grave? 
And  you,  my  son,  yet  have  a  son,  foredoomed  a  slave  to  be, 
Whose  mother  still  must  weep  o'er  him  the  tears  I  weep  o'er  thee  ! 


Battle-axe. 


BOOK    III 

THE   POETS   OF    THE  NATION 

THE  NATION  newspaper  was  founded  in  the  autumn  of  1842, 
and  its  first  proprietor  and  editor,  Charles  Gavan  Duffy, 
emigrated  to  Australia  in  1855.  These  fourteen  years  fell  into 
two  distinct  periods— the  first  ending  with  the  imprisonment 
of  Duffy  in  1848,  the  second  with  his  emigration.  They  were 
certainly  the  most  eventful  years  that  Ireland  had  experienced 
since  the  Union.  They  witnessed  the  rise  and  fall  of 
O'ConnelPs  Repeal  movement  ;  the  insurrection  of  '48  ;  the 
Famine ;  the  introduction  into  the  British  Parliament  of  Duffy's 
scheme  of  Independent  Opposition,  and  its  failure  ;  and  the 
consequent  wreck  of  the  Tenant  Right  movement,  through  the 
treachery  of  the  '  Brigadiers '  and  the  madness  of  t'he  people. 
It  is  a  record  of  heroic  effort,  of  crushing  disaster,  and  of 
miserable  defeat.  Yet  if  these  years  were  am^ng  the  most 
calamitous  in  Irish  history,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  they 
were  the  most  fertile  in  the  seeds  of  future  success.  Almost 
everything  that  Ireland  has  since  gained  in  the  practical  field — 
and  she  has  gained  much — has  been  won  by  developing  and 
applying  the  ideas  struck  out  at  that  time.  And  The  Nation 
newspaper  was  the  forge  of  thought  in  which  the  most  active 
and  ardent  minds  of  the  country  wrought  indefatigably  at  the 
fabric  of  her  freedom  and  prosperity.  But  it  was  not  only 
ideas  and  suggestions  that  were  bequeathed  to  the  future  from 
these  fourteen  years,  it  was  also  passion  and  inspiration.  The 
body  of  National  poetry  produced  at  this  period — first  as 


H2  BOOK  III 


fugitive  verse  in  the  columns  of  the  newspaper,  afterwards 
collected  and  reprinted  in  countless  editions— entered  pro- 
foundly into  the  heart  and  mind  of  Irishmen  of  that  and  sub- 
sequent generations.1  Other  writers  have  produced  poetic  work 
of  a  loftier  order  ;  but  of  this  it  may  be  said,  and  of  this  alone, 
that  no  one  who  is  unacquainted  with  it  can  understand  the 
contemporary  history  of  Ireland. 

The  story  of  the  foundation  and  early  career  of  The  Nation 
has  been  told  so  fully  in  so  accessible  a  book  as  Sir  Charles 
Gavan  Duffy's  YOUNG  IRELAND,  that  it  is  not  necessary  here 
to  describe  these  transactions  at  any  length.  Seldom,  if  ever, 
has  any  journal  exercised  so  great  and  so  worthy  an  effect 
on  the  political  education  of  a  people.  The  founders  of  The 
Nation  found  the  masses  of  their  countrymen  just  emerging 
from  serfdom,  unconscious  of  their  power,  ignorant  of  their 
history ;  the  sense  of  nationality,  such  as  there  was,  the 
monopoly  of  one  religious  faction  and  the  scorn  of  another ; 
their  aspirations  either  fantastically  vague  or  crudely  material. 
On  the  ears  of  such  a  people  fell  sentences  like  these  : 

This  country  of  ours  is  no  sand-bank,  thrown  up  by  some  recent 
caprice  of  earth.  It  is  an  ancient  land,  honoured  in  the  archives  of 
civilisation,  traceable  into  antiquity  by  its  piety,  its  valour  and  its 
sufferings.  Every  great  European  race  has  sent  its  stream  to  the  river 
of  Irish  mind.  Long  wars,  vast  organisations,  subtle  codes,  beacon 
crimes,  leading  virtues,  and  self-mighty  men  were  here.  If  we  live 
influenced  by  wind  and  sun  and  tree,  and  not  by  the  passions  and 
deeds  of  the  PAST,  we  are  a  thriftless  and  hopeless  people.  —  DAVIS'S 
ESSAYS. 

Thus,  and  in  a  hundred  essays,  articles,  and  poems, 
elaborating  these  conceptions  in  detail,  did  Thomas  Davis, 
Duffy,  and  their  colleagues  point  their  countrymen  to  their 
past.  And  as  for  the  future,  we  may  recognise  in  the  following 
passage  the  kernel  of  multitudes  of  similar  articles,  essays, 
poems,  holding  up  before  the  Irish  people  a  noble  and  severe 
ideal  of  self-cultivation,  of  discipline  and  preparation,  for  great 

1  *  Deep  down  in  the  heart  of  every  young  Irishman,'  says  Mr.  William 
O'Brien,  with  absolute  truth,  '  you  will  find  the  spirit  of  The  Nation.* 


POETS  OF  1THE  NATION'  113 

destinies  which  in  those  golden  days  seemed  nearer  at  hand 
than  they  can  to  the  most  sanguine  now  : 

The  elements  of  Irish  nationality  are  not  only  combining  —in  fact, 
they  are  growing  confluent  in  our  minds.  Such  nationality  as  merits  a 
good  man's  help,  and  awakens  a  true  man's  ambition— such  nationality 
as  could  stand  against  internal  faction  and  foreign  intrigue — such 
nationality  as  would  make  the  Irish  hearth  happy,  and  the  Irish  name 
illustrious,  is  becoming  understood.  It  must  contain  and  represent  all 
the  races  of  Ireland.  It  must  not  be  Celtic  ;  it  must  not  be  Saxon  ;  it 
must  be  Irish.  The  Brehon  law,  and  the  maxims  of  Westminster— the 
cloudy  and  lightning  genius  of  the  Gael,  the  placid  strength  of  the  Sac- 
sanach,  the  marshalling  insight  of  the  Norman  -  a  literature  which  shall 
exhibit  in  combination  the  passions  and  idioms  of  all,  and  which  shall 
equally  express  our  mind  in  its  romantic,  its  religious,  its  forensic,  and 
its  practical  tendencies — finally,  a  native  government,  which  shall 
know  and  rule  by  the  might  and  right  of  all,  yet  yield  to  the  arrogance 
of  none — these  are  the  components  of  such  a  nationality.  — DAVIS'S 
ESSAYS. 

The  keynote  of  all  the  poetry  which  gave  wings  to  the 
purposes  and  propaganda  of  The  Nation,  and  which  has  served 
more  than  anything  else  to  keep  the  fame  of  the  Young 
Irelanders  fresh  to  day,  was  the  doctrine  of  Irish  nationality. 
Nationality  is  indeed  the  diapason  of  all  worthy  imaginative 
literature,1  but  in  the  case  of  The  Nation  poets — at  least,  those 
of  the  first  period,  up  to  1848 — it  was  generally  also  the 
immediate  theme  or  motive  of  their  writings.  They  wrote  for 
a  directly  political  purpose—  to  inspire  their  countrymen  with 
national  pride,  and  faith  in  the  cause  of  Repeal,  and  also  with 
hatred  of  English  rule.  Lyrics  of  pure  emotion  like  'My 
Grave,'  by  Davis,  or  Judge  O'Hagan's  beautiful  poem,  '  The 
Old  Story,'  were  rather  by-products  of  their  toil ;  their  direct 
object  was  to  influence  opinion  and  action.  Poetry  produced 
under  this  stimulus  may  not  take  rank  with  the  creation  of  the 
artist  dreaming  on  eternal  truths,  eternal  beauty,  and  expressing 
them  in  the  rich  and  arduous  harmonies  of  music  and  thought 

1  'Der  starkste  Antrieb  zu  geistigem  und  wirtschaftlichem  Schaffen.' — 
Petition  of  German  Authors  and  Professors  to  the  Czar  for  the  Liberties  o) 
Finland. 


H4  BOOK  III 


which  we  call  poetry.  Yet  if  the  Young  Irelanders  worked  for 
an  immediate  practical  aim,  none  the  less  did  high  truth  and 
noble  passion  inspire  and  inform  their  work,  and  their  influence 
on  the  mind  and  heart  of  their  readers  was  altogether  for  good. 
They  awakened  the  intellect  of  Ireland  from  slumber,  and  they 
made  the  written  word  a  power  in  the  land. 

How,  it  may  be  asked,  did  all  this  poetic  talent  spring  up 
so  suddenly  ?  One  hardly  knows.  Duffy  originated  the  idea 
of  publishing  National  songs  and  ballads  in  The  Nation,  and 
Davis  inaugurated  the  scheme  with  the  finest  poem  he  ever 
wrote,  the  '  Lament  for  Owen  Roe.'  Other  writers — some  of 
them  peasants,  some  artisans,  some  exiles  who  had  made  their 
homes  in  far-distant  lands — whose  gift  for  verse  or  sympathy  with 
their  country  would  otherwise  perhaps  never  have  found  utter- 
ance, were  inspired  by  the  example  of  Davis  and  the  passion  of 
the  time.  The  Nation  went  far  and  wide  through  the  country- 
it  reached  the  priest,  the  student,  the  schoolmaster,  the  Repeal 
Committee  man.  Soon  it  found  its  way  to  the  artisan  and  the 
peasant  ;  it  was  read  aloud  in  the  chapel-yard  on  Sundays,  or 
round  the  forge  fire  of  an  evening.  It  told  the  people  of  an 
Ireland  they  had  never  heard  of  before  ;  not  the  Ireland  of 
burlesque,  or  of  bigoted  misrepresentation,  inhabited  by  Handy 
Andies  and  Scullabogue  murderers,  but  '  an  old  historic  island, 
the  mother  of  soldiers  and  scholars,  whose  name  was  heard  in 
the  roar  of  onset  on  a  thousand  battlefields,  for  whose  dear 
love  the  poor  homesick  exile  in  the  garret  or  cloister  of  some 
foreign  city  toiled  or  plotted  .  .  .  the  one  mother  country 
which  a  man  loves  as  he  loves  the  mother  who  held  him  to 
her  breast.' l  To  express  the  throng  of  new  ideas,  emotions, 
aspirations,  which  crowded  on  the  mind  of  the  people,  the 
Irish  genius  turned  naturally  to  song.  From  wholly  new  and 
unsuspected  quarters  poems  began  to  pour  in  upon  The  Nation 
— now  it  was  some  student  who  in  a  flame  of  patriotic  passion 
wrought  a  lyric  to  which  the  hearts  of  Irishmen  will  quiver  for 
all  time ;  now  it  was  some  gifted  lady  of  the  dominant  classes 
who  stepped  from  her  pride  of  place  to  become  the  stormy 
1  C.  G.  Duffy. 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION*  115 

voice  of  an  oppressed  and  perishing  people  ;  now  it  was  some 
schoolboy  in  a  provincial  town  who  sent  up,  in  a  scarcely 
legible  manuscript,  verses  throbbing  with  fiery  energy  ;  or  a  girl 
nurtured  in  seclusion  and  in  an  atmosphere  of  tender  piety 
who  added  a  strain  of  delicate  sweetness  to  the  martial  music 
which  came  most  frequently  and  naturally  to  the  poets  of 
The  Nation. 

Intensely  patriotic  as  this  poetry  was,  there  was  yet  one 
important  aspect  of  patriotism  which  found,  and  perhaps 
could  find,  no  distinct  expression  in  it  ;  it  had  little  or  nothing 
of  the  Gaelic  note.  In  reading  Mangan,  whose  orbit  coincided 
for  a  while  with  that  of  The  Nation,  but  who  must,  on  the 
whole,  be  considered  as  a  star  that  dwelt  apart,  and  Ferguson, 
who  was  united  to  The  Nation  writers  by  ties  of  friendship 
and  of  political  sympathy,  but  not  by  literary  association,  one 
feels  that  these  writers  have  behind  them  the  moulding 
influences  of  a  body  of  literature  quite  other  than  the  English — 
a  literature  marked  by  a  peculiar  strain  of  mingled  homeliness 
and  grandeur,  of  simplicity  and  elaboration,  of  sensuousness 
and  mysticism.  This  was  the  ancient  literature  of  the  Gael 
— the  one  literature  of  modern  Europe  which  grew  up  spon- 
taneously, untouched  by  the  mighty  influences  of  classic  culture. 
And  Mangan  and  Ferguson  are  the  progenitors  of  those  writers 
of  our  own  day,  like  Standish  O'Grady  and  Yeats,  who  are  the 
representatives  of  the  old  Gaelic  tradition,  though  they  hand 
it  forward  in  the  English  tongue.  The  Nation  writers,  however, 
recall  not  the  Gaelic  but  the  English  tradition.  Davis's  '  Lament 
for  Owen  Roe  '  has  a  certain  Gaelic  afflatus,  and  Edward  Walsh 
knew  how  to  *  turn  a  simple  verse  true  to  the  Gaelic  ear '  ;  but 
for  the  most  part,  though  the  poets  of  The  Nation  loved  to 
sprinkle  their  verses  with  Irish  phrases,  the  qualities  which 
remind  us  that  there  was  once  a  Gaelic  literature  lie  rather  on 
the  surface  than  in  the  substance  of  their  work.  Nor  at  that 
time  could  it  well  have  been  otherwise.  The  ancient  tongue 
was  still  living ;  but  Nationalist  opinion,  represented  by 
O'Connell,  regarded  it  as  a  sort  of  incubus,  and  of  the  old 
literature  little  was  known  or  understood. 

i2 


ii6  BOOK  III 


With  this  general  introduction  the  poets  of  The  Nation 
may  now  be  left  to  speak  for  themselves.  The  selections 
which  follow  are  taken  from  the  two  excellent  collections  of 
The  Nation  poetry,  the  SPIRIT  OF  THE  NATION  (Jas.  Duffy, 
Dublin)  and  the  NEW  SPIRIT  OF  THE  NATION  (T.  Fisher 
Unwin,  London),  and  also  in  some  cases  from  the  other 
writings  of  authors  who  are  represented  in  these  volumes,  and 
who  won  their  earliest  or  principal  distinction  as  writers  for 
The  Nation  during  the  editorship  of  Charles  Gavan  Duffy. 
After  his  emigration  the  paper  was  ably  conducted,  and  with 
special  care  for  its  literary  repute,  by  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan  ;  but 
no  poetic  movement  comparable  to  that  which  is  illustrated  in 
the  two  volumes  I  have  mentioned  has  ever  again  been 
associated  with  politics  or  journalism  in  Ireland. 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON. 


THOMAS   DAVIS 

THE  poetical  work  of  Thomas  Davis  fell  within  the  last  three 
years  of  his  short  life,  from  the  date  when  he  joined  The 
Nation  enterprise  in  1842  to  his  death  in  1845.  He  never 
put  forth  his  full  strength  in  this  direction,  and  his  history, 
which  has  been  fully  written  by  his  friend  and  colleague, 
Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  is  the  history  of  a  man  of  action,  not 
of  a  litterateur.  His  songs  were  things  which  he  paused  to  do — 
often  hastily,  and  by  the  way — as  he  was  pressing  forward  to  his 
aim.  Yet  his  poetry,  written  as  it  was  straight  from  the  heart 
and  on  the  themes  that  vitally  interested  and  moved  him,  was 
not  only  a  powerful  auxiliary  to  his  work  as  a  political  guide 
and  teacher,  but  has  high  and  enduring  attractions  of  its  own, 
and  has  added  peculiar  fragrance  to  a  memory  worthy  on  so 
many  grounds  of  being  cherished  by  his  countrymen.  It  was 
in  his  poetry  that  he  most  intimately  revealed  himself.  And 
though  Thomas  Davis  was  extraordinarily  fertile  in  ideas,  and 
indefatigable  in  methodic  industry,  the  best  thing  he  gave  to 


POETS  OF  1THE  NATION'  117 

the  Irish  people  was  not  an  idea  or  an  achievement  of  any  sort, 
but  simply  the  gift  of  himself.  He  was  the  ideal  Irishman. 
North  and  south,  east  and  west,  the  finest  qualities  of  the 
population  that  inhabit  this  island  seemed  to  be  combined  in 
him,  developed  to  their  highest  power,  and  coloured  deeply 
with  whatever  it  is  in  character  and  temperament  that  makes 
the  Irish  one  of  the  most  separate  of  races.  The  nation  saw 
itself  transfigured  in  him,  and  saw  the  dreams  nourished  by  its 
long  memories  and  ancestral  pride  coming  true.  Hence  the 
intense  personal  devotion  felt  towards  Davis  by  the  ardent  and 
thoughtful  young  men  who  were  associated  with  him,  and  the 
sense  of  irreparable  loss  caused  by  his  early  death.  He  stood 
for  Ireland — for  all  Ireland — as  no  other  man  did,  and  it  was 
hardly  possible  to  distinguish  the  cause  from  his  personality. 
Yet  perhaps  the  best  evidence  of  the  potency  and  the  nobility 
of  his  influence  was  the  fact  that  this  sense  of  loss  was 
overcome  by  the  recollection  of  the  ideals  he  had  held  up,  and 
that  his  memory  was  honoured  by  the  undaunted  pursuance  of 
his  work,  and  the  maintenance  of  the  pure  and  lofty  ardour 
with  which  he  wrought. 

Thomas  Davis  was  born  in  1814  at  Mallow,  County  Cork. 
His  father  was  a  surgeon  in  the  Royal  Artillery,  of  Welsh 
origin  ;  his  mother  belonged  to  a  well-known  Irish  family,  the 
Atkins  of  Firville.  As  a  boy  he  is  said  to  have  been  shy,  very 
sensitive,  and  not  at  all  quick  at  learning  ;  but  at  Trinity 
College  the  passion  of  the  student  took  possession  of  him,  and 
though  he  never  competed  for  honours  and  prizes  he  became, 
and  remained  all  his  life,  a  diligent  and  omnivorous  reader. 
He  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  1838,  but  speedily  abandoned 
that  profession  for  literature  and  journalism.  With  Charles 
Gavan  Duffy  and  John  Blake  Dillon  he  took  part  in  the 
founding  of  The  Nation  and  in  its  subsequent  management. 
His  '  Lament  of  Owen  Roe  '  was  among  the  first  of  the  National 
poems  and  ballads  which  soon  formed  so  marked  a  feature  in 
the  propaganda  carried  on  by  that  paper.  On  September  16, 
1845,  he  died  of  scarlet  fever,  and  was  followed  to  his  grave  by 
the  lamentations  of  his  countrymen  of  every  creed  and  every 


ii8  BOOK  111 


political   party.      '  Beloved    and    honoured,'    as    his    friend 

O'Hagan  wrote, 

* .  .  .  With  a  sphere 
Of  proud  exertion  widening  near, 
In  manhood's  power  and  might  arrayed, 
Cold  in  the  grave  we  saw  him  laid. 

Not  dying,  as  he  yearned  to  die, 
Keened  by  his  country's  victor-cry ; 
But  struck  by  swift  and  stern  disease. 
How  strange  to  man  are  God's  decrees  ! 

Davis's  prose  writings  were  edited  in  1845  by  C.  G.  Duffy,  and  in 
1889  an  enlarged  edition  was  brought  out  by  Walter  Scott,  London.  His 
poems  have  been  collected  and  edited  by  T.  Wallis,  with  an  excellent 
introduction  (James  Duffy,  Dublin).  His  Life  has  been  written  by  Sir 
Charles  Gavan  Dutfy  (Kegan  Paul). 

CELTS  AND  SAXONS 

WE  hate  the  Saxon  and  the  Dane, 

We  hate  the  Norman  men — 
We  cursed  their  greed  for  blood  and  gain, 

We  curse  them  now  again. 
Yet  start  not,  Irish-born  man  ! 

If  you're  to  Ireland  true, 
We  heed  not  blood,  nor  creed,  nor  clan — 

We  have  no  curse  for  you. 

We  have  no  curse  for  you  or  yours, 

But  Friendship's  ready  grasp, 
And  Faith  to  stand  by  you  and  yours 

Unto  our  latest  gasp — 
To  stand  by  you  against  all  foes, 

Howe'er  or  whence  they  come, 
With  traitor  arts,  or  bribes,  or  blows, 

From  England,  France,  or  Rome. 

What  matter  that  at  different  shrines 

We  pray  unto  one  God  ? 
What  matter  that  at  different  times 

Our  fathers  won  this  sod  ? 


POETS   OF  'THE  NATION  119 

In  fortune  and  in  name  we're  bound 

By  stronger  links  than  steel ; 
And  neither  can  be  safe  nor  sound 

But  in  the  other's  weal. 

As  Nubian  rocks  and  Ethiop  sand, 

Long  drifting  down  the  Nile, 
Built  up  old  Egypt's  fertile  land 

For  many  a  hundred  mile  : 
So  Pagan  clans  to  Ireland  came, 

And  clans  of  Christendom, 
Yet  joined  their  wisdom  and  their  fame 

To  build  a  nation  from. 

Here  came  the  brown  Phcenician, 

The  man  of  trade  and  toil- 
Here  came  the  proud  Milesian, 

A-hungering  for  spoil  ; 
And  the  Firbolg  and  the  Cymry, 

And  the  hard,  enduring  Dane, 
And  the  iron  Lords  of  Normandy, 

With  the  Saxons  in  their  train. 

And  oh  !  it  were  a  gallant  deed 

To  show  before  mankind, 
How  every  race  and  every  creed 

Might  be  by  love  combined — 
Might  be  combined,  yet  not  forget 

The  fountains  whence  they  rose, 
As,  filled  b'y  many  a  rivulet, 

The  stately  Shannon  flows. 

Nor  would  we  wreak  our  ancient  feud 

On  Belgian  or  on  Dane, 
Nor  visit  in  a  hostile  mood 

The  hearths  of  Gaul  or  Spain  ; 
But  long  as  on  our  country  lies 

The  Anglo-Norman  yoke, 
Their  tyranny  we'll  stigmatise, 

And  God's  revenge  invoke. 


120  BOOK  II T 


We  do  not  hate,  we  never  cursed, 

Nor  spoke  a  foeman's  word 
Against  a  man  in  Ireland  nursed, 

Howe'er  we  thought  he  erred. 
So  start  not,  Irish-born  man  ! 

If  you're  to  Ireland  true, 
We  heed  not  race,  nor  creed,  nor  clan — 

We've  hearts  and  hands  for  you. 

LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  EOGHAN  RUADH  O'NEILL1 

Time.  —November  10, 1649.  Scene.  —  Ormond's  Camp,  County  Waterford. 
Speakers.— A  veteran  of  Eoghan  O'Neill's  clan,  and  one  of  the  horsemen,  just 
arrived  with  an  account  of  his  death. 

'  DID  they  dare— did  they  dare,  to  slay  Owen  Roe  O'Neill  ? ' 
'Yes,  they  slew  with  poison  him  they  feared  to  meet  with  steel.'  2 
'  May  God  wither  up  their  hearts  !     May  their  blood  cease  to  flow  ! 
May  they  walk  in  living  death  who  poisoned  Owen  Roe ! 

'  Though  it  break  my  heart  to  hear,  say  again  the  bitter  words.' 
1  From  Derry,  against  Cromwell,  he  marched  to  measure  swords  ; 
But  the  weapon  of  the  Sacsanach  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  he  died  at  Cloch  Uachtar3  upon  St.  Leonard's  Day. 

1  Wail,  wail  ye  for  the  Mighty  One  !     Wail,  wail,  ye  for  the  Dead  ! 
Quench  the  hearth,  and  hold  the  breath— with  ashes  strew  the  head. 
How  tenderly  we  loved  him  !     How  deeply  we  deplore  ! 
Holy  Saviour  !  but  to  think  we  shall  never  see  him  more ! 

'  Sagest  in  the  council  was  he,  kindest  in  the  hall : 
Sure,  we  never  won  a  battle — 'twas  Owen  won  them  all. 
Had  he  lived — had  he  lived,  our  dear  country  had  been  free  ; 
But  he's  dead — but  he's  dead,  and  'tis  slaves  we'll  ever  be. 

1  Commonly  called  Owen  Roe  O'Neill.  The  Life  of  this  great  general 
and  noble  Irishman  has  been  admirably  written  for  the  '  New  Irish  Library  ' 
by  Mr.  J.  F.  Taylor,  Q.C.  (Fisher  Unwin). 

2  This  is  an  anachronism.     Poison  was  freely  employed  against  the 
Irish  in  Elizabethan  but  not  in  Cromwellian   times.      Yet  the  suspicion 
lives  among  the  people  even  to  the  present  day — witness  the  street-ballad 
'  By  Memory  Inspired,'  Book  I. 

8  Clough  Oughter. 


POETS  OF  1THE  NATION*  121 

'  O'Farrell  and  Clanrickarde,  Preston  and  Red  Hugh, 
Audley  and  MacMahon,  ye  are  valiant,  wise,  and  true  ; 
But  what— what  are  ye  all  to  our  darling  who  is  gone  ? 
The  Rudder  of  our  ship  was  he— our  Castle's  corner-stone  ! 

1  Wail,  wail  him  through  the  island  !     Weep,  weep  for  our  pride  ! 
Would  that  on  the  battlefield  our  gallant  chief  had  died  ! 
Weep  the  victor  of  Beinn  Burb— weep  him,  young  men  and  old  ! 
Weep  for  him,  ye  women — your  Beautiful  lies  cold  ! 

'  We  thought  you  would  not  die— we  were  sure  you  would  not  go, 
And  leave  us  in  our  utmost  need  to  Cromwell's  cruel  blow- 
Sheep  without  a  shepherd,  when  the  snow  shuts  out  the  sky— 
Oh  !  why  did  you  leave  us,  Owen  ?    Why  did  you  die  ? 

'  Soft  as  woman's  was  your  voice,  O'Neill !     Bright  was  your  eye. 
Oh  !  why  did  you  leave  us,  Owen  ?    Why  did  you  die  ? 
Your  troubles  are  all  over  ;  you're  at  rest  with  God  on  high  : 
But  we're  slaves,  and  we're  orphans,  Owen  !    Why  did  you  die?' 

THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE1 

This  was  the  last  poem  written  by  Thomas  Davis.  As  a  specimen  of  his 
power  in  a  narrative  poem  it  seems  far  superior  to  his  perhaps  better-known 
ballad  on  Fontenoy.  Miss  Mitforcl  in  her  MEMOIRS  wrote  of  it :  '  Not  only  is 
it  full  of  spirit  and  melody  .  .  .  but  the  artistic  merit  is  so  great.  .  .  .  There 
is  no  careless  line  or  a  word  out  of  place  ;  and  how  the  epithets  paint — "  fibrous 
sod,"  "heavy  balm,"  "  shearing  sword "  ! ' 

THE  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's  hundred  isles  ; 

The  summer  sun  is  gleaming  still  through  Gabriel's  rough  defiles  ; 


1  Baltimore  is  a  small  seaport  in  the  barony  of  Carbery,  in  South 
Munster.  It  grew  up  round  a  astle  of  O'Driscoll's,  and  was,  after  his 
ruin,  colonised  by  the  English.  On  June  20,  1631,  the  crew  of  two 
Algerine  galleys  landed  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  sacked  the  town,  and 
bore  off  into  slavery  all  who  were  not  too  old  or  too  young  or  too 
fierce  for  their  purpose.  The  pirates  were  steered  up  the  intricate 
channel  by  one  Hackett,  a  Dungarvan  fisherman,  whom  they  had  taken 
at  sea  for  the  purpose.  Two  years  after  he  was  convicted  and  executed 
for  the  crime.  Baltimore  never  recovered  this.  To  the  artist,  the 
antiquary,  and  the  naturalist,  its  neighbourhood  is  most  interesting. 
(See  THE  ANCIENT  AND  PRESENT  STATE  OF  THE  COUNTY  AND  CITY  OF 
CORK,  by  Charles  Smith,  M.D.) 


122  BOOK  III 


Old  Inisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like  a  moulting  bird  ; 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean  tide  is  heard ; 
The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach  ;  the  children  cease  their  play  ; 
The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn  ;  the  households  kneel  to  pray  ; 
And  full  of  love  and  peace  and  rest — its  daily  labour  o'er — 
Upon  that  cosy  creek  there  lay  the  town  of  Baltimore. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  with  midnight  there  ; 
No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in  earth  or  sea  or  air. 
The  massive  capes  and  ruined  towers  seem   conscious   of  the 

calm  ; 

The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing  heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  these  two  long  barques  round  Dunashad  that 

glide 

Must  trust  their  oars — methinks  not  few — against  the  ebbing  tide. 
Oh !   some   sweet   mission   of  true  love  must  urge  them  to  the 

shore — 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sighs  in  Baltimore  ! 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky  street, 
And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with  gently  gliding  feet — 
A  stifled  gasp  !  a  dreamy  noise  !     '  The  roof  is  in  a  flame  ! ' 
From  out  their  beds,  and  to  their  doors,  rush  maid  and  sire  and 

dame — 

And  meet,  upon  the  threshold  stone,  the  gleaming  sabre's  fall, 
And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  white  or  crimson  shawl  ; 
The  yell  of  '  Allah '  breaks  above  the  prayer  and  shriek  and  roar — 
Oh,  blessed  God  !  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Baltimore  ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against  the  shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprung  the  mother  on  the  brand  with  which  her  son  was 

gored  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grand-babes  clutching 

wild  ; 

Then  fled  the  maiden,  moaning  faint,  and  nestled  with  the  child. 
But  see,  yon   pirate  strangled  lies,  and  crushed  with  splashing 

heel, 

While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  there  sweeps  his  Syrian  steel — 
Though  virtue  sink  and  courage  fail,  and  misers  yield  their  store, 
There's  one  hearth  well  avenged  in  the  sack  of  Baltimore  ! 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION*  123 

Midsummer  morn,  in  woodland  nigh,  the  birds  began  to  sing — 
They  see  not  now  the  milking-maids — deserted  is  the  spring ! 
Midsummer  day  — this  gallant  rides  from  distant  Bandon's  town — 
These  hookers  crossed  from  stormy  Skull,  that  skiff  from  Affa- 

down  ; 
They   only   found    the   smoking  walls,   with   neighbours'    blood 

besprent, 

And  on  the  strewed  and  trampled  beach  awhile  they  wildly  went — 
Then  dashed  to  sea,  and  passed  Cape  Clear,  and  saw  five  leagues 

before 
The  pirate  galleys  vanishing  that  ravaged  Baltimore. 

Oh  !   some  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,  and  some  must   tend  the 

steed — 

This  boy  will  bear  a  Scheik's  chibouk,  and  that  a  Bey's  jerreed. 
Oh  !  some  are  for  the  arsenals,  by  beauteous  Dardanelles  ; 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's  sandy  dells. 
The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen  for  the  Dey — 
She's  safe— he's  dead — she  stabbed  him  in  the  midst  of  his  Serai. 
And  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire  that  noble  maid  they  bore, 
She  only  smiled—  O'DriscolPs  child— she  thought  of  Baltimore. 

'Tis  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town  beneath  that  bloody  band, 
And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger  concourse  stand, 
Where,  high  upon  a  gallows-tree,  a  yelling  wretch  is  seen — 
'Tis  Hackett  of  Dungarvan — he  who  steered  the  Algerine  ! 
He  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout,  with  scarce  a  passing  prayer, 
For  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a  hundred  there. 
Some  muttered  of  MacMurchadh,  who  brought  the  Norman  o'er — 
Some  cursed  him  with  Iscariot,  that  day  in  Baltimore. 

THE  GIRL  OF  DUNBWY 

Tis  pretty  to  see  the  girl  of  Dunbwy 
Stepping  the  mountain  statelily — 
Though  ragged  her  gown  and  naked  her  feet, 
No  lady  in  Ireland  to  match  her  is  meet. 

Poor  is  her  diet,  and  hardly  she  lies — 

Yet  a  monarch  might  kneel  for  a  glance  of  her  eyes  ; 


124  BOOK  III 


The  child  of  a  peasant — yet  England's  proud  Queen 
Has  less  rank  in  her  heart  and  less  grace  in  her  mien. 

Her  brow  'neath  her  raven  hair  gleams,  just  as  if 

A  breaker  spread  white  -'neath  a  shadowy  cliff — 

And  love  and  devotion  and  energy  speak 

From  her  beauty-proud  eye  and  her  passion -pale  cheek. 

But,  pale  as  her  cheek  is,  there's  fruit  on  her  lip, 
And  her  teeth  flash  as  white  as  the  crescent  moon's  tip, 
And  her  form  and  her  step,  like  the  red-deer's,  go  past — 
As  lightsome,  as  lovely,  as  haughty,  as  fast. 

I  saw  her  but  once,  and  I  looked  in  her  eye, 
And  she  knew  that  I  worshipped  in  passing  her  by. 
The  saint  of  the  wayside — she  granted  my  prayer 
Though  we  spoke  not  a  word  ;  for  her  mother  was  there. 

I  never  can  think  upon  Bantry's  bright  hills, 
But  her  image  starts  up,  and  my  longing  eye  fills  ; 
And  I  whisper  her  softly  :  '  Again,  love,  we'll  meet  ! 
And  I'll  lie  in  your  bosom,  and  live  at  your  feet.' 


NATIONALITY 

A  NATION'S  voice,  a  nation's  voice — 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  ! 
It  bids  the  bondage-sick  rejoice — 

'Tis  stronger  than  a  king. 
'Tis  like  the  light  of  many  stars, 

The  sound  of  many  waves  ; 
Which  brightly  look  through  prison-bars 

And  sweetly  sound  in  caves. 
Yet  is  it  noblest,  godliest  known, 
When  righteous  triumph  swells  its  tone. 

A  nation's  flag,  a  nation's  flag— 

If  wickedly  unrolled, 
May  foes  in  adverse  battle  drag 

Its  every  fold  from  fold. 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION  125 


But  in  the  cause  of  Liberty, 

Guard  it  'gainst  Earth  and  Hell ; 

Guard  it  till  Death  or  Victory- 
Look  you,  you  guard  it  well  ! 

No  saint  or  king  has  tomb  so  proud 

As  he  whose  flag  becomes  his  shroud. 

A  nation's  right,  a  nation's  right — 

God  gave  it,  and  gave,  too, 
A  nation's  sword,  a  nation's  might, 

Danger  to  guard  it  through. 
'Tis  freedom  from  a  foreign  yoke, 

Tis  just  and  equal  laws, 
Which  deal  unto  the  humblest  folk 

As  in  a  noble's  cause. 
On  nations  fixed  in  right  and  truth 
God  would  bestow  eternal  youth. 

May  Ireland's  voice  be  ever  heard 

Amid  the  world's  applause  ! 
And  never  be  her  flag-staff  stirred 

But  in  an  honest  cause  ! 
May  freedom  be  her  very  breath, 

Be  Justice  ever  dear  : 
And  never  an  ennobled  death 

May  son  of  Ireland  fear  ! 
So  the  Lord  God  will  ever  smile, 
With  guardian  grace,  upon  our  isle. 


JOHN   DE  JEAN   FRAZER 

BORN  in  the  King's  County  about  1809,  and  wrote  largely 
for  The  Nation,  The  Irish  Felon,  £c.  He  was  a  cabinet- 
maker by  trade.  Died  in  Dublin  1852.  His  'Song  for 
July  1 2th'  represents  with  much  literary  grace  and  skill  the 
form  of  thought  prevalent  among  The  Nation  writers  towards 
Orangeism. 


126  BOOK  III 


SONG  FOR  JULY  i2TH,  1843 

Air — '  Boyne  Water  ' 

COME  !  pledge  again  thy  heart  and  hand — 

One  grasp  that  ne'er  shall  sever  ; 
Our  watchword  be — *  Our  native  land  ! ' 

Our  motto — '  Love  for  ever  ! ' 
And  let  the  Orange  lily  be 

Thy  badge,  my  patriot-brother — 
The  everlasting  Green  for  me  ; 

And  we  for  one  another. 

Behold  how  green  the  gallant  stem 

On  which  the  flower  is  blowing  ; 
How  in  one  heavenly  breeze  and  beam 

Both  flower  and  stem  are  glowing. 
The  same  good  soil,  sustaining  both, 

Makes  both  united  flourish  ; 
But  cannot  give  the  Orange  growth, 

And  cease  the  green  to  nourish. 

Yea,  more — the  hand  that  plucks  the  fiWr 

Will  vainly  strive  to  cherish  ; 
The  stem  blooms  on — but  in  that  hour 

The  flower  begins  to  perish. 
Regard  them,  then,  of  equal  worth 

While  lasts  their  genial  weather  ; 
The  time's  at  hand  when  into  earth 

The  two  shall  sink  together. 

Ev'n  thus  be,  in  our  country's  cause, 

Our  rjarty  feelings  blended  ; 
Till  lasting  peace,  from  equal  laws, 

On  both  shall  have  descended. 
Till  then  the  Orange  lily  be 

Thy  badge,  my  patriot-brother — 
The  everlasting  Green  for  me  ; 

And — we  for  one  another. 


POETS  OF  <THE  NATION*  127 


JOHN  O'HAGAN 

O'HAGAN  (born  at  Newry  1822)  entered  the  ranks  of  The 
Nation  writers  when  a  young  barrister  fresh  from  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  and  contributed  to  that  journal  much  spirited 
verse  over  the  signature  'Sliabh  Cuilinn '  (Slieve  Cullan — 
the  mountain  vulgarly  known  as  the  Great  Sugarloaf).  'A 
boyish  face,  a  frank  smile,  and  a  readiness  to  engage  in 
badinage '  were,  according  to  Sir  C.  G.  Duffy,  the  first  character- 
istics that  impressed  themselves  on  his  associates  ;  but  he 
soon  showed  gifts  of  character  and  intellect  that  made  him 
one  of  the  most  influential  and  trusted  members  of  the  Young 
Ireland  party.  After  a  distinguished  career  at  the  Bar  he  was 
appointed  by  Mr.  Gladstone  first  chairman  of  the  Irish  Land 
Commission,  and  died  in  1890. 

THE  SONG  OF  ROLAND,   translated  from  the  French,    1880 ;  THE 
CHILDREN'S  BALLAD  ROSARY,  1890. 

OURSELVES  ALONE 

THE  work  that  should  to-day  be  wrought, 

Defer  not  till  to-morrow  ; 
The  help  that  should  within  be  sought, 

Scorn  from  without  to  borrow. 
Old  maxims  these — yet  stout  and  true — 

They  speak  in  trumpet  tone, 
To  do  at  once  what  is  to  do, 

And  trust  OURSELVES  ALONE. 

Too  long  our  Irish  hearts  we  schooled 

In  patient  hope  to  bide, 
By  dreams  of  English  justice  fooled 

And  English  tongues  that  lied. 
That  hour  of  weak  delusion's  past — 

The  empty  dream  has  flown  : 
Our  hope  and  strength,  we  find  at  last, 

Is  in  OURSELVES  ALONE. 


128  BOOK  III 


Aye  !  bitter  hate  or  cold  neglect, 

Or  lukewarm  love  at  best, 
Is  all  we've  found,  or  can  expect, 

We  Aliens  of  the  West. 
No  friend,  beyond  our  own  green  shore, 

Can  Erin  truly  own  ; 
Yet  stronger  is  her  trust,  therefore, 

In  her  brave  sons  ALONE. 

Remember,  when  our  lot  was  worse — 

Sunk,  trampled  to  the  dust — 
'Twas  long  our  weakness  and  our  curse 

In  stranger  aid  to  trust. 
And  if,  at  length,  we  proudly  trod 

On  bigot  laws  o'erthrown, 
Who  won  that  struggle  ?     Under  God, 

Ourselves — OURSELVES  ALONE. 

Oh  !  let  its  memory  be  enshrined 

In  Ireland's  heart  for  ever  ! 
It  proves  a  banded  people's  mind 

Must  win  in  just  endeavour  ; 
It  shows  how  wicked  to  despair, 

How  weak  to  idly  groan — 
If  ills  at  others'  hand  ye  bear, 

The  cure  is  in  YOUR  OWN. 

The  foolish  word  '  impossible ' 

At  once,  for  aye,  disdain  ! 
No  power  can  bar  a  people's  will, 

A  people's  right  to  gain. 
Be  bold,  united,  firmly  set, 

Nor  flinch  in  word  or  tone — 
We'll  be  a  glorious  nation  yet, 

REDEEMED— ERECT— ALONE  ! 


POETS   OF  'THE  NATION1  129 

THE  OLD  STORY 

Old  as  the  universe,  yet  not  outworn.'—  The  Island. 

HE  came  across  the  meadow-pass, 

That  summer  eve  of  eves  ; 
The  sunlight  streamed  along  the  grass 

And  glanced  amid  the  leaves  ; 
And  from  the  shrubbery  below, 

And  from  the  garden  trees, 
He  heard  the  thrushes'  music  flow, 

And  humming  of  the  bees. 
The  garden-gate  was  swung  apart — 

The  space  was  brief  between  ; 
But  there,  for  throbbing  of  his  heart, 

He  paused  perforce  to  lean. 

He  leaned  upon  the  garden-gate  ; 

He  looked,  and  scarce  he  breathed  ; 
Within  the  little  porch  she  sate, 

With  woodbine  overwreathed  ; 
Her  eyes  upon  her  work  were  bent 

Unconscious  who  was  nigh  ; 
But  oft  the  needle  slowly  went, 

And  oft  did  idle  lie  ; 
And  ever  to  her  lips  arose 

Sweet  fragments  faintly  sung, 
But  ever,  ere  the  notes  could  close, 

She  hushed  them  on  her  tongue. 

'  Why  should  I  ever  leave  this  spot, 

But  gaze  until  I  die  ? ' 
A  moment  from  that  bursting  thought 

She  felt  his  footstep  nigh. 
One  sudden  lifted  glance — but  one, 

A  tremor  and  a  start, 
So  gently  was  their  greeting  done 

That  who  would  guess  their  heart? 

Long,  long  the  sun  had  sunken  down, 
And  all  his  golden  trail 


130  BOOK  III 


Had  died  away  to  lines  of  brown, 

In  duskier  hues  that  fail. 
The  grasshopper  was  chirping  shrill — 

No  other  living  sound 
Accompanied  the  tiny  rill 

That  gurgled  underground — 
No  other  living  sound,  unless 

Some  spirit  bent  to  hear 
Low  words  of  human  tenderness, 

And  mingling  whispers  near. 

The  stars,  like  pallid  gems  at  first, 

Deep  in  the  Jiquid  sky, 
Now  forth  upon  the  darkness  burst, 

Sole  kings  and  lights  on  high 
In  splendour,  myriad-fold,  supreme — 

No  rival  moonlight  strove, 
Nor  lovelier  e'er  was  Hesper's  beam, 

Nor  more  majestic  Jove. 
But  what  if  hearts  there  beat  that  night 

That  recked  not  of  the  skies, 
Or  only  felt  their  imaged  light 

In  one  another's  eyes  ? 

And  if  two  worlds  of  hidden  thought 

And  fostered  passion  met, 
Which,  passing  human  language,  sought 

And  found  an  utterance  yet  ; 
And  if  they  trembled  like  to  flowers 

That  droop  across  a  stream, 
The  while  the  silentstarry  hours 

Glide  o'er  them  like  a  dream  ; 
And  if,  when  came  the  parting  time, 

They  faltered  still  and  clung  ; 
What  is  it  all  ? — an  ancient  rhyme 

Ten  thousand  times  besung — 
That  part  of  paradise  which  man 

Withojt  the  portal  knows — 
Which  hath  been  since  the  world  began, 

And  shall  be  till  its  close. 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION*  131 

PROTESTANT  ASCENDENCY 

'  A  Protestant  King,  a  Protestant  House  of  Lords  and  Commons,  a  Protes- 
tant Hierarchy  ;  the  courts  of  Justice,  the  army,  the  navy,  and  the  revenue,  in 
all  their  branches  and  details,  Protestant  -  and  this  system  fortified  and  main- 
tained by  a  connection  with  the  Protestant  State  of  Great  Britain. 

1  The  Protestants  of  Ireland  will  never  relinquish  their  political  position, 
which  their  fathers  won  with  their  swords,  and  which  they,  therefore,  regard  as 
their  birthright.'— Letter  of  the  Dublin  Corporation,  1793. 

GREAT  fabric  of  oppression 

By  tyrant  plunderers  planned, 
So  giant-vast,  so  iron-fast, 
That  were  not  God's  great  fiat  pass'd 
That  man's  injustice  shall  not  last 

Thou  might'st  eternal  stand  ; 
Black  fortress  of  Ascendency, 

Beneath  whose  wasting  sway 
Sprang  crime  and  strife,  so  deadly  rife — 

What  rests  of  thee  to-day  ? 

A  few  unsightly  fragments, 

The  scoff  and  scorn  of  all, 
Long  pierc'd  and  rent  by  freedom's  power 
They  rot  and  crumble  hour  by  hour, 
And  wait  the  lightest  storm  to  lour, 

In  hapless  wreck  to  fall. 
What  show  of  faded  banners, 

What  shouts  of  angry  men, 
Or  doughty  threat  or  sullen  fret, 

Will  raise  that  pile  again  ? 

Vain  !  vain  !  go  seek  the  charnel 

Where  haughty  Clare  lies  low  ; 
Tell  him  how  ruin  darkens  o'er 
The  cause  he  sav'd  in  flames  and  gore, 
How  his  strong  will  is  needed  sore 

In  this  your  day  of  woe — 
Rouse  bloody  Toler,  summon  all 

Clan  Beresford  to  gorge  and  prey, 
And  acrid  Saurin's  heart  of  gall 

And  serpent  Castlereagh. 

K2 


132  BOOK  III 


And  those  dry  bones  shall  hearken 

And  smite  with  ghastly  fear 
This  isle  once  more,  ere  ye  restore 

Their  dead  dominion  here. 

Vain  !  vain  !  can  ye  roll  backward 

The  world  for  fifty  years  ? 
From  thrice  three  glowing  millions  drain 
Their  strength  and  substance,  heart  and  brain  ? 
Where  thought  and  daring  impulse  reign, 

Plant  old  derided  fears  ? 
Get  their  strong  limbs  your  yoke  to  bear, 

Your  grasp  upon  their  purse  ? 
Your  maddest  madman  would  not  dare 

So  wild  a  dream  to  nurse — 
Awake  !  awake  !  your  paths  to  take 

For  better  or  for  worse. 

The  better  lies  before  you, 

The  noblest  ever  trod  ; 
To  meet  your  brothers  face  to  face, 
Quell  idle  feuds  of  creed  or  race, 
And  take  your  gallant  grandsires'  place 

To  free  your  native  sod. 
Make  recreant  statesmen  tremble, 

And  ingrate  England  quail, 
And  win  and  wear  the  proudest  share 

In  Ireland's  proudest  tale. 

The  worse — 'tis  yours  to  choose  it — 

In  helpless  rage  to  stand  : 
To  see  the  gulf  and,  trembling,  wait — 
To  writhe  beneath  o'ermastering  fate, 
Repelling  with  a  scowl  of  hate 

Your  brother's  outstretched  hand- 
In  history  known  as  tigers 

Whose  teeth  and  fangs  were  drawn, 
Whose  heart  and  will  were  murderous  still 

When  means  and  strength  were  gone. 


POETS  OF  «  777.fi-  NATION*  133 


Know,  Protestants  of  Ireland, 

That,  doomed  among  mankind — 
Marked  with  the  fatal  mark — are  they 
Who  will  not  know  their  place  or  day, 
But  cling  to  phantoms  pass'd  away, 

And  sow  the  barren  wind. 
Life's  ever- shifting  currents 

Brave  men  put  forth  to  try  ; 
They  wait  beside  the  ebbing  tide 

Till  darkness  finds  them  dry. 


SIR   CHARLES   GAVAN   DUFFY 

C.  G.  DUFFY  was  born  in  Monaghan,  1816.  He  was  educated 
in  that  town,  and  entered  journalism  in  Dublin  at  a  very  early 
age.  In  1842  he  launched  The  Nation  newspaper.  In  the 
words  of  Mr.  Martin  MacDermott,  the  great  gift  which  he 
brought  to  the  National  movement  was  *  the  power  of  initiation 
and  organisation,  without  which,  notwithstanding  Davis's 
splendid  talents,  there  never  would  have  been  a  Nation  news- 
paper or  a  Young  Ireland  party.'  THE  LIBRARY  OF  IRELAND 
and  in  later  days  THE  NEW  IRISH  LIBRARY  were  originated 
by  him,  and  his  BALLAD  POETRY  OF  IRELAND  is  an 
invaluable  collection  of  Irish  verse.  He  was  arrested  in 
1848,  but  after  several  abortive  trials,  in  which  the  anxiety  of 
the  Crown  to  obtain  a  conviction  overreached  itself,  he  was 
released.  After  the  Famine,  he  projected  and  carried  out  a 
national  agitation  for  land  reform,  in  which  political  differences 
on  other  questions  were  laid  aside,  and  entered  Parliament  in 
connection  with  this  movement.  It  failed  when  apparently  on 
the  eve  of  success,  owing  largely  to  the  opposition  of  Cardinal 
Cullen  and  some  of  the  Catholic  hierarchy,  who  supported 
Sadlier  and  Keogh— deserters  from  the  Tenant  League  camp. 
Duffy  then  emigrated  to  Australia,  where  he  became  Premier  of 
Victoria  and  received  the  honour  of  K.C.M.G.  on  the  visit  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales  in  1873.  In  his  later  years  he  has  lived 


134  BOOK  III 


at  Nice,  and  has  busied  himself  chiefly  in  recording — in 
volumes  as  fascinating  as  they  are  instructive — the  history  of 
the  Irish  movements  in  which  he  was  engaged. 

None  of  the  Young  Irelanders  wrote  in  rhyme  and  metre 
with  more  sinewy  force  than  Duffy.  His  lines  smite  home, 
like  the  axe  of  an  Irish  Gallowglass  ;  and  though  his  mind,  as 
his  whole  career  shows,  was  eminently  that  of  a  statesman,  he 
clearly  thought  and  felt  as  a  reckless  fighter  when  he  faced  the 
enemies  of  his  cause  with  the  keen  blade  of  verse  in  his  hand. 
The  rising  of  1641  and  the  brigandage  of  the  Rapparees  were 
among  the  features  of  the  secular  resistance  of  Ireland  with 
which  the  National  cause  was  most  often  reproached,  and  for 
which  its  leaders  were  expected  to  apologise.  And  those  were 
the  very  things  that  Duffy  chose  to  flaunt  before  his  shocked 
(or  delighted)  readers,  for  the  apologetic  attitude  then  so 
prevalent  in  Ireland,  the  tacit  admission  that  the  English 
conquest  was  in  any  sense  a  triumph  of  civilisation  over 
barbarism,  was  utterly  repugnant  to  him  and  his  colleagues,  and 
their  first  object  was  to  make  their  countrymen  understand  the 
whole  truth  about  their  history  and  be  proud  of  it.  Duffy's 
lyre  had  other  strings  too,  which  he  touched  with  skill,  as  in  the 
( Lay  Sermon '  and  other  poems  collected  in  the  NEW  SPIRIT  OF 
THE  NATION,  but  it  is  in  these  warlike  strains  that  his  verse 
has  most  strength  and  character. 

Sir  Charles  Duffy's  principal  works  are  :  YOUNG  IRELAND  ;  THE 
LEAGUE  OF  THE  NORTH  AND  SOUTH  (the  Tenant  League)  ;  LIFE 
OF  THOMAS  DAVIS;  A  SHORT  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  DAVIS  ('New  Irish 
Library');  and  an  edition  of  IRISH  BALLAD  POETRY  (1843).  He  has 
lately  published  his  Reminiscences. 

THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH 

A.D.    1641 

We  deny  and  have  always  denied  the  alleged  massacre  of  1641.  But  that 
(he  people  rose  under  their  chiefs,  seized  the  English  towns  and  expelled  the 
Fnglish  settlers,  and  in  doing  so  committed  many  excesses,  is  undeniable  -  as 
is  equally  their  desperate  provocation.  The  ballad  here  printed  is  not  meant 
as  an  apology  for  these  excesses,  which  we  condemn  and  lament,  but  as 
a  true  representation  of  the  feelings  of  the  insurgents  in  the  first  madness  of 
success.  — A  uthor's  note. 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION'  135 

JOY  !  joy  !  the  day  is  come  at  last,  the  day  of  hope  and  pride — 
And  see  !  our  crackling  bonfires  light  old  Bann's  rejoicing  tide, 
And  gladsome  bell  and  bugle-horn  from  Newry's  captured  towers, 
Hark  !  how  they  tell  the  Saxon  swine  this  land  is  ours — is  OURS  ! 

Glory  to  God  !  my  eyes  have  seen  the  ransomed  fields  of  Down, 
My  ears  have  drunk  the  joyful  news,  *  Stout  Phelim  hath  his  own.' 
Oh  !  may  they  see  and  hear  no  more  ! — oh  !  may  they  rot  to  clay  ! — 
When  they  forget  to  triumph  in  the  conquest  of  to-day. 

Now,  now  we'll  teach  the  shameless  Scot  to  purge  his  tnievish 

maw  ; 

Now,  now  the  Court  may  fall  to  pray,  for  Justice  is  the  Law  ; 
Now  shall  the  Undertaker  l  square,  for  once,  his  loose  accounts— 
WJll  strike,  brave  boys,  a  fair  result,  from  all  his  false  amounts. 

Come,  trample  down  their  robber  rule,  and  smite  its  venal  spawn, 
Their  foreign  laws,  their  foreign  Church,  their  ermine  and  their 

lawn, 

With  all  the  specious  fry  of  fraud  that  robbed  us  of  our  own  ; 
And  plant  our  ancient  laws  again  beneath  our  lineal  throne. 

Our  standard  flies  o'er  fifty  towers,  o'er  twice  ten  thousand  men  ; 
Down  have  we  plucked  the  pirate  Red,  never  to  rise  again  ; 
The  Green  alone  shall  stream  above  our  native  field  and  flood — 
The  spotless  Green,  save  where  its  folds  are  gemmed  with  Saxon 
blood  ! 

Pity  ! 2  no,  no,  you  dare  not,  priest — not  you,  our  Father,  dare 
Preach  to  us  now  that  godless  creed — the  murderer's  blood  to 

spare  ; 
To  spare  his  blood,  while  tombless  still  our  slaughtered  kin  implore 

*  Graves  and  revenge '  from  Gobbin  cliffs  and  Carrick's  bloody 

shore  ! 3 

1  The  Scotch  and  English  adventurers  planted  in  Ulster  by  James  I. 
were  called;4  Undertakers.' 

2  Leland,    the   Protestant   historian,  states   that  the   Catholic  priests 

*  laboured  zealously  to   moderate  the   excesses  of  war,'    and    frequently 
protected  the  English  by  concealing  them  in  their  places  of  worship  and 
even  under  their  altars. 

8  The  scene  of  the  massacre  of  the  unoffending  inhabitants  of  Island 
Magee  by  the  garrison  of  Carrickfergus. 


136  BOOK  III 


Pity  !  could  we  '  forget,  forgive,3  if  we  were  clods  of  clay, 

Our  martyred  priests,  our  banished  chiefs,  our  race  in  dark  decay, 

And,  worse  than  all — you  know  it,  priest — the  daughters  of  our 

land— 
With  wrongs  we  blushed  to  name  until  the  sword  was  in  our  hand? 

Pity  !  well,  if  you  needs  must  whine,  let  pity  have  its  way — 
Pity  for  all  our  comrades  true,  far  from  our  side  to-day  : 
The  prison-bound  who  rot  in  chains,  the  faithful  dead  who  poured 
Their  blood  'neath  Temple's  lawless  axe  or  Parsons'  ruffian  sword 

They  smote  us  with  the  swearer's  oath  and  with  the  murderer's 

knife  ; 

We  in  the  open  field  will  fight  fairly  for  land  and  life  ; 
But,  by  the  dead  and  all  their  wrongs,  and  by  our  hopes  to-day, 
One  of  us  twain  shall  fight  their  last,  or  be  it  we  or  they. 

They  banned  our  faith,  they  banned  our  lives,  they  trod  us  into 

earth, 

Until  our  very  patience  stirred  their  bitter  hearts  to  mirth. 
Even  this  great  flame  that  wraps  them  now,  not  we  but  they  have 

bred: 
Yes,  this  is  their  own  work  ;  and  now  their  work  be  on  their  head  ! 

Nay,  Father,  tell  us  not  of  help  from  Leinster's  Norman  peers, 
If  we  shall  shape  our  holy  cause  to  match  their  selfish  fears — 
Helpless  and  hopeless  be  their  cause  who  brook  a  vain  delay  ! 
Our  ship  is  launched,  our  flag's  afloat,  whether  they  come  or  stay. 

Let  silken  Howth  and  savage  Slane  still  kiss  their  tyrant's  rod, 
And  pale  Dunsany  still  prefer  his  master  to  his  God  ; 
Little  we'd  miss  their  fathers'  sons,  the  Marchmen  of  the  Pale, 
If  Irish  hearts  and  Irish  hands  had  Spanish  blade  and  mail  ! 

Then  let  them  stay  to  bow  and  fawn,  or  fight  with  cunning  words  ; 
I  fear  me  more  their  courtly  arts  than  England's  hireling  swords  ; 
Nathless  their  creed,  they  hate  us  still,  as  the  despoiler  hates  ; 
Could  they  love  us,  and  love  their  prey,  our  kinsmen's  lost  estates  ? 

Our  rude  array's  a  jagged  rock  to  smash  the  spoiler's  pow'r— 
Or,  need  we  aid,  His  aid  we  have  who  doomed  this  gracious  hour  ; 
Of  yore  He  led  His  Hebrew  host  to  peace  through  strife  and  pain, 
And  us  He  leads  the  self-same  path,  the  self-same  goal  to  gain. 


POETS   OF  «  THE  NATION*  137 


Down  from  the  sacred  hills  whereon  a  saint  '  communed  with  God, 
Up  from  the  vale  where  Bagenal's  blood  manured  the  reeking  sod, 
Out  from  the  stately  woods  of  Truagh,  M<  Kenna's  plundered  home, 
Like  Malin's  waves,  as  fierce  arid  fast,  our  faithful  clansmen  come. 

Then,  brethren,  on  !     O'Neill's  dear  shade  would  frown  to  see  you 

pause — 
Our  banished  Hugh,  our  martyred  Hugh,  is  watching  o'er  your 

cause — 

His  generous  error  lost  the  land — he  deemed  the  Norman  true ; 
Oh,  forward  !  friends,  it  must  not  lose  the  land  again  in  you  ! 


THE  IRISH  RAPPAREES 
A  PEASANT  BALLAD 

When  Limerick  was  surrendered  and  the  bulk  of  the  Irish  army  took 
service  with  Louis  XIV.,  a  multitude  of  the  old  soldiers  of  the  Boyne,  Aughrim 
and  Limerick,  preferred  remaining  in  the  country  at  the  risk  of  fighting  for 
their  daily  bread  ;  and  with  them  some  gentlemen,  loath  to  part  from  their 
estates  or  their  sweethearts.  The  English  army  and  the  English  law  drove 
them  by  degrees  to  the  hills,  where  they  were  long  a  terror  to  the  new  and  old 
settlers  from  England,  and  a  secret  pride  and  comfort  to  the  trampled  peasantry, 
who  loved  them  even  for  their  excesses.  It  was  all  they  had  left  to  take  pride 
in.—  Author s  note. 

RICH  SHEMUS  he  has  gone  to  France  and  left  his  crown  behind  : — 
Ill-luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put  runnin'  in  his  mind ! 
Lord  Lucan-  followed  after,  with  his  slashers  brave  and  true, 
And  now  the  doleful  keen  is  raised — '  What  will  poor  Ireland  do  ? 

'What  must  poor  Ireland  do? 

Our  luck,  they  say,  has  gone  to  France.     What  can  poor  Ireland 
do?' 

Oh,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  so'gers  still, 

For  Remy's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Rory's  on  the  hill  ; 

1  St.  Patrick,  whose  favourite  retreat  was  Lecale,  in  the  County 
Down. 

'-'  After  the  Treaty  of  Limerick,  Patrick  Sarsfield,  Lord  Lucan,  sailed 
with  the  Brigade  to  France,  and  was  killed  while  leading  his  countrymen 
to  victory  at  the  battle  of  Landen,  in  the  Low  Countries,  July  29,  1693. 


138  BOOK  III 


And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more  loyal  hearts  than  these — 
May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful  Rapparees  ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 
The  jewel  waar  ye,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rapparees  ! 

Oh,  black's  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and  coulder  than  the  clay  ! 
Oh,  high's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since  Sarsfield's  gone  away  ! 
It's  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of  long  ago  — 
But  howld  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a  deadly  blow — 

Can  strike  a  mortal  blow — 
Och  !  dar-a-Chriost !  'tis  she  that  still  could  strike  the  deadly  blow  ! 

The  master's  bawn,  the  master's  seat,  a  surly  bodach  '  fills  ; 

The  master's  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the  hills  ; 

But,  God  be  praised,  that  round  him  throng,  as  thick  as  summer 

bees, 
The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  walls— his  faithful  Rapparees  ! 

His  lovin'  Rapparees  ! 
Who  daar  say  'No'  to  Rory  Oge,  who  heads  the  Rapparees  ! 

Black  Billy  Grimes,  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us  long  and  sore — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke  ;  we'll  never  see  them  more  ! 
But  I'll  go  bail  he'll  break  no  more  while  Truagh  has  gallows-trees, 
For  why  ?  he  met  one  lonesome  night  the  awful  Rapparees  ! 

The  angry  Rapparees  ! 
They  never  sin  no  more,  my  boys,  who  cross  the  Rapparees. 

Now,  Sassenach  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what  I  say — 
Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks  that  scorn  us  night  and 

day  ; 

For  there's  a  just  and  wrathful  Judge  that  every  action  sees, 
And  He'll  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong,  the  faithful  Rapparees  ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 
The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield's  side,  the  changeless  Rapparees  ! 


1  Bodach  :  a  severe,  inhospitable  man  ;  a  churl. 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION  139 


WILLIAM   B.    McBURNEY 

VERY  little  is  known  of  this  writer,  who  was  an  early  con- 
tributor to  The  Nation.  He  is  said  to  have  died  recently 
in  the  United  States.  He  has  also  written  under  the  name  of 
1  Carroll  Malone.' 

THE  CROPPY  BOY 

A   BALLAD  OF  '98 

'GOOD  men  and  true  !  in  this  house  who  dwell, 
To  a  stranger  bouchal,  I  pray  you  tell 
Is  the  Priest  at  home  ?  or  may  he  be  seen  ? 
I  would  speak  a  word  with  Father  Green.' 

'  The  Priest's  at  home,  boy,  and  may  be  seen  ; 
Tis  easy  speaking  with  Father  Green  ; 
But  you  must  wait,  till  I  go  and  see 
If  the  holy  Father  alone  may  be.' 

The  youth  has  entered  an  empty  hall — 
What  a  lonely  sound  has  his  light  foot-fall  ! 
And  the  gloomy  chamber's  chill  and  bare, 
With  a  vested  Priest  in  a  lonely  chair. 

The  youth  has  knelt  to  tell  his  sins. 

'  Nomine  Dei]  the  youth  begins  : 

At  *  mea  culpa '  he  beats  his  breast, 

And  in  broken  murmurs  he  speaks  the  rest. 

1  At  the  siege  of  Ross  did  my  father  fall, 
And  at  Gorey  my  loving  brothers  all. 
I  alone  am  left  of  my  name  and  race  ; 
I  will  go  to  Wexford  and  take  their  place. 

*  I  cursed  three  times  since  last  Easter  Day — 
At  Mass-time  once  I  went  to  play  ; 
I  passed  the  churchyard  one  day  in  haste, 
And  forgot  to  pray  for  my  mother's  rest 


140  BOOK  III 


'  I  bear  no  hate  against  living  thing  ; 
But  I  love  my  country  above  my  King. 
Now,  Father  !  bless  me,  and  let  me  go 
To  die,  if  God  has  ordained  it  so.' 

The  Priest  said  nought,  but  a  rustling  noise 
Made  the  youth  look  above  in  wild  surprise  ; 
The  robes  were  off,  and  in  scarlet  there 
Sat  a  yeoman  captain  with  fiery  glare. 

With  fiery  glare  and  with  fury  hoarse, 

Instead  of  blessing,  he  breathed  a  curse  : 

'  'Twas  a  good  thought,  boy,  to  come  here  and  shrive  ; 

For  one  short  hour  is  your  time  to  live. 

'  Upon  yon  river  three  tenders  float ; 

The  Priest's  in  one,  if  he  isn't  shot  ; 

We  hold  his  house  for  our  Lord  the  King, 

And — "  Amen,"  say  I— may  all  traitors  swing  ! ' 

At  Geneva  barrack  that  young  man  died, 
And  at  Passage  they  have  his  body  laid. 
Good  people  who  live  in  peace  and  joy, 
Breathe  a  prayer  and  a  tear  for  the  Croppy  boy. 

THE  GOOD  SHIP  CASTLE  DOWN 

A   REBEL   CHAUNT,    A.D.    1776 

OH,  how  she  plough'd  the  ocean,  the  good  ship  Castle  Down, 
That  day  we  hung  our  colours  out,  the  Harp  without  the  Crown  ! 
A  gallant  barque,  she  topp'd  the  wave,  and  fearless  hearts  were 

we, 

With  guns  and  pikes  and  bayonets,  a  stalwart  company. 
'Twas  a  sixteen  yeais  from   THUROT  ;   and  sweeping  down  the 

bay 

The  '  Siege  of  Carrickfergus  '  so  merrily  we  did  play  : 
And  by  the  old   castle's  foot  we  went,  with  three   right  hearty 

cheers, 
And  wav'd  aloft  our  green  cockades,  for  we  were  Volunteers, 

Volunteers  ! 
Oh,  we  were  in  our  prime  that  day,  stout  Irish  Volunteers. 


POETS   OF  ^THE  NATION'  141 


'Twas   when   we  heav'd   our    anchor  on  the  breast  of  smooth 

Garmoyle; 

Our  guns  spoke  out  in  thunder  :  '  Adieu,  sweet  Irish  soil ! 
At  Whiteabbey  and  Greencastle,  and  Holywood  so  gay, 
Were  hundreds  waving  handkerchiefs  and  many  a  loud  huzza. 
Our  voices  o'er  the  water  struck  the  hollow  mountains  round — 
Young  Freedom,  struggling  at  her  birth,  might  utter  such  a  sound. 
By  that  green  slope  beside  Belfast,  we  cheer'd  and  cheer'd  it  still — 
For  they  had  chang'd   its   name   that   year,    and  they  call'd  it 

Bunker's  Hill- 

Bunker's  Hill! 

Oh,  were  our  hands  but  with  our  hearts  in  the  trench  at  Bunker's 
Hill! 

Our  ship  clear'd  out  for  Quebec  ;  but  thither  little  bent, 

Up  some  New  England  river,  to  run  her  keel  we  meant  ; 

So  we  took  a  course  due  north  as  round  the  old  Black  Head  we 

steer'd, 

Till  Ireland  bore  south-west  by  south,  and  Fingal's  rock  appear'd. 
Then  on  the  poop  stood  Webster,  while  the  ship'hung  flutteringly, 
About  to  take  her  tack  across  the  wide,  wide  ocean  sea — 
He  pointed  to  th'  Atlantic     '  Sure,  yon's  no  place  for  slaves  : 
Haul  down  these  British  badges,  for  Freedom  rules  the  waves — 

Rules  the  waves  ! ' 
Three  hundred  strong  men  answered,  shouting   '  Freedom  rules 

the  waves  ! ' 

Then  all  together  rose  and  brought  the  British  ensign  down, 
And  up  we  haul'd  our  Irish  Green,  without  the  British  Crown. 
Emblazoned  there  a  Golden  Harp  like  a  maiden  undefiled, 
A  shamrock  wreath  around  her  head,   look'd  o'er  the  sea  and 

smiled. 

A  hundred  days,  with  adverse  wind,  we  kept  our  course  afar, 
On  the  hundredth  day  came  bearing  down  a  British  sloop  of  war. 
When  they  spied  our  flag  they  fired  a  gun,  but  as  they  nearM  us 

fast, 
Old  Andrew  Jackson  went  aloft  and  nailed  it  to  the  mast — 

To  the  mast ! 
A  soldier  was  old  Jackson,  and  he  made  our  colours  fast. 


142  BOOK  III 


Patrick  Henry  was  our  captain,  as  brave  as  ever  sailed. 

*  Now  we  must  do  or  die,'  said  he,  *  for  the  Green  Flag  is  nailed. 

Silently  came  the  sloop  along  ;  and  silently  we  lay 

Flat,  till  with  cheers  and  loud  broadside  the  foe  began  the  fray. 

Then  the  boarders  o'er  the  bulwarks,  like  shuttlecocks,  we  cast ; 

One  close  discharge  from  all  our  guns  cut  down  the  tapering  mast. 

4  Now,  British  tars  !  St.  George's  Cross  is  trailing  in  the  sea — 

How  d'ye  like  the  greeting  and  the  handsel  of  the  Free  ? — 

Of  the  Free  ! 
How  like  you,  lads,  the  greeting  of  the  men  who  will  be  free  ?  ' 

They  answer3  d  us  with  cannon,  as  befitted  well  their  fame  ; 
And  to  shoot  away  our  Irish  flag  each  gunner  took  his  aim  ; 
They  ripp'd  it  up  in  ribbons  till  it  fluttered  in  the  air, 
And  riddled  it  with  shot-holes  till  no  Golden  Harp  was  there ; 
But  through  the  ragged  holes  the  sky  did  glance  and  gleam  in 

light, 
Just  as  the  twinkling  stars  shine  through  God's  unfurled  flag  at 

night. 
With  dropping  fire  we  sang,  *  Good- night,  and  fare  ye  well,  brave 

tars  ! ' 
Our  captain  looked  aloft :  *  By  Heaven  !  the  flag  is  Stripes  and 

Stars  ! ' 

Stripes  and  Stars  ! 
So  into  Boston  port  we  sailed,  beneath  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 


JOHN   KELLS   INGRAM 
(See  J.  K.  Ingram,  Book  VI.) 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION*  143 

He's  all  a  knave  or  half  a  slave 

Who  slights  his  country  thus  : 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few — 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too  ; 
All,  all  are  gone— but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died  ; 
And  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made  ; 
But  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit's  still  at  home. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest  ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land  ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas  !  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right — 

They  fell,  and  passed  away  ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 


144  BOOK  III 


Then  here's  their  memory — may  it  be 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite  ! 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs,  your  fate  ; 
And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 


MARTIN   MAcDERMOTT 

MARTIN  MACDERMOTT  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1823.  He 
contributed  much  graceful  verse  to  The  Nation,  and  has 
recently  edited  the  NEW  SPIRIT  OF  THE  NATION,  a  volume 
which  has  been  of  much  help  towards  this  Anthology.  He 
took  part  in  the  political  movements  of  the  '48  period,  being 
deputed  to  represent  the  leaders  of  the  attempted  insurrection 
in  Paris.  He  has  served  for  some  years  as  Chief  Architect  to 
the  Office  of  Works  of  the  Khedive  of  Egypt,  and  now  lives  in 
England.  He  has  taken  some  part  in  the  work  of  the  Irish 
Literary  Society  of  London. 

GIRL  OF  THE  RED  MOUTH 

GlRL  of  the  red  mouth, 

Love  me  !     Love  me ! 
Girl  of  the  red  mouth, 

Love  me  ! 

'Tis  by  its  curve,  I  know, 
Love  fashioneth  his  bow, 
And  bends  it — ah,  even  so  ! 

Oh,  girl  of  the  red  mouth,  love  me  ! 

Girl  of  the  blue  eye, 

Love  me  !     Love  me  ! 
Girl  of  the  dew  eye, 

Love  me  ! 


POETS   OF  <  THE  NATION*  145 

Worlds  hang  for  lamps  on  high  ; 
And  thought's  world  lives  in  thy 
Lustrous  and  tender  eye — 

Oh,  girl  of  the  blue  eye,  love  me  ! 

Girl  of  the  swan's  neck, 

Love  me  !     Love  me  ! 
Girl  of  the  swan's  neck, 

Love  me  ! 

As  a  marble  Greek  doth  grow 
To  his  steed's  back  of  snow, 
Thy  white  neck  sits  thy  shoulder  so, — 

Oh,  girl  of  the  swan's  neck,  love  me  ! 

Girl  of  the  low  voice, 

Love  me  !     Love  me  ! 
Girl  of  the  sweet  voice, 

Love  me  ! 

Like  the  echo  of  a  bell, — 
Like  the  bubbling  of  a  well — 
Sweeter  !     Love  within  doth  dwell, — 

Oh,  girl  of  the  low  voice,  love  me  ! 


RICHARD  DALTON   WILLIAMS 

THE  '  Munster  War- Song  '  was  sent  to  The  Nation  by  Williams 
when  a  schoolboy  at  Carlo w.  He  was  born  in  the  County 
Tipperary,  1821.  He  was  tried  for  treason -felony  in  1848,  but 
acquitted.  In  1849  he  to°k  his  medical  degree  in  Edinburgh, 
practised  in  Dublin  for  a  couple  of  years,  and  then  emigrated 
to  the  U.S.A.  He  became  Professor  of  Belles  Lettres  ^n 
Mobile  (Ala.),  and  in  1856  took  up  practice  as  a  physician  at 
New  Orleans.  He  died  in  1862.  A  monument  has  been  raised 
to  him  by  a  regiment  of  Irish-American  soldiers  who  happened 
to  encamp  near  his  grave  during  the  Civil  War.  Williams  wrote 
a  great  deal  of  humorous  as  well  as  patriotic  verse  for  The 
Nation.  With  much  grace,  pathos,  and  energy,  he  had  the 

L 


146  BOOK  III 


1  fatal  facility  '  of  many  Irish  verse-writers,  and  never  achieved 
all  that  he  was  capable  of.  His  '  Dying  Girl '  is,  however,  a 
piece  of  verse  which  will  not  easily  be  forgotten.  His  poems 
have  been  collected  and  published  by  P.  A.  Sillard,  Dublin. 

THE  MUNSTER  WAR-SONG 

BATTLE    OF    AHERLOW,     A.D.     1 190 

CAN  the  depths  of  the  ocean  afford  you  not  graves, 
That  you  come  thus  to  perish  afar  o'er  the  waves — 
To  redden  and  swell  the  wild  torrents  that  flow 
Through  the  valley  of  vengeance,  the  dark  Aherlow  ? l 

The  clangour  of  conflict  o'erburthens  the  breeze, 
From  the  stormy  Slieve  Bloom  to  the  stately  Galtees  ; 
Your  caverns  and  torrents  are  purple  with  gore, 
Slievenamon,  Glen  Colaich,  and  sublime  Galtee  Mor  ! 

The  Sunburst  that  slumbered,  embalmed  in  our  tears, 
Tipperary  !  shall  wave  o'er  thy  tall  mountaineers  ! 
And  the  dark  hill  shall  bristle  with  sabre  and  spear 
While  one  tyrant  remains  to  forge  manacles  here. 

The  riderless  war-steed  careers  o'er  the  plain 
With  a  shaft  in  his  flank  and  a  blood-dripping  mane  ; 
His  gallant  breast  labours,  and  glare  his  wild  eyes  ; 
He  plunges  in  torture — falls — shivers — and  dies. 

Let  the  trumpets  ring  triumph  !     The  tyrant  is  slain  ! 
He  reels  o'er  his  charger  deep-pierced  through  the  brain ; 
And  his  myriads  are  flying,  like  leaves  on  the  gale — 
But  who  shall  escape  from  our  hills  with  the  tale  ? 

For  the  arrows  of  vengeance  are  show'ring  like  rain, 
And  choke  the  strong  rivers  with  islands  of  slain, 
Till  thy  waves,  lordly  Shannon,  all  crimsonly  flow, 
Like  the  billows  of  hell,  with  the  blood  of  the  foe. 

'  Aberlow  Glen,  County  Tipperary. 


POETS   OF  'THE  NATION'  147 


Ay  !  the  foemen  are  flying,  but  vainly  they  fly — 
Revenge  with  the  fleetness  of  lightning  can  vie  ; 
And  the  septs  of  the  mountains  spring  up  from  each  rock 
And  rush  down  the  ravines  like  wolves  on  the  flock. 

And  who  shall  pass  over  the  stormy  Slieve  Bloom, 

To  tell  the  pale  Saxon  of  tyranny's  doom, 

When,  like  tigers  from  ambush,  our  fierce  mountaineers 

Leap  along  from  the  crags  with  their  death -dealing  spears  ? 

They  came  with  high  boasting  to  bind  us  as  slaves, 
But  the  glen  and  the  torrent  have  yawned  on  their  graves. 
From  the  gloomy  Ardrinnan  to  wild  Temple  Mor — 
From  the  Suir  to  the  Shannon— is  red  with  their  gore. 

By  the  soul  of  Heremon  !  our  warriors  may  smile, 
To  remember  the  march  of  the  foe  through  our  isle  ; 
Their  banners  and  harness  were  costly  and  gay, 
And  proudly  they  flashed  in  the  summer  sun's  ray  ; 

The  hilts  of  their  falchions  were  crusted  with  gold, 
And  the  gems  of  their  helmets  were  bright  to  behold  ; 
By  Saint  Bride  of  Kildare  !  but  they  moved  in  fair  show — 
To  gorge  the  young  eagles  of  dark  Aherlow  ! 

THE  DYING  GIRL 

FROM  a  Munster  vale  they  brought  her, 

From  the  pure  and  balmy  air  ; 
An  Ormond  peasant's  daughter, 

With  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair — 
They  brought  her  to  the  city, 

And  she  faded  slowly  there. 
Consumption  has  no  pity 

For  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

When  I  saw  her  first  reclining 

Her  lips  were  mov'd  in  pray'r, 
And  the  setting  sun  was  shining 

On  her  loosen'd  golden  hair. 

L2 


148  BOOK  III 


When  our  kindly  glances  met  her, 
Deadly  brilliant  was  her  eye  ; 

And  she  said  that  she  was  better, 
While  we  knew  that  she  must  die. 

She  speaks  of  Munster  valleys, 

The  pattern,  dance  and  fair. 
And  her  thin  hand  feebly  dallies 

With  her  scattered  golden  hair. 
When  silently  we  listen'd 

To  her  breath  with  quiet  care, 
Her  eyes  with  wonder  glisten'd — 

And  she  asked  us,  '  What  was  there  ? 

The  poor  thing  smiled  to  ask  it, 

And  her  pretty  mouth  laid  bare, 
Like  gems  within  a  casket, 

A  string  of  pearlets  rare. 
We  said  that  ve  were  trying 

By  the  gushing  of  her  blood 
And  the  time  she  took  in  sighing 

To  know  if  she  were  good. 

Well,  she  smil'd  and  chatted  gaily, 

Though  we  saw  in  mute  despair 
The  hectic  brighter  daily, 

And  the  death-dew  on  her  hair. 
And  oft  her  wasted  fingers 

Beating  time  upon  the  bed  : 
O'er  some  old  tune  she  lingers, 

And  she  bows  her  golden  head. 

At  length  the  harp  is  broken  ; 

And  the  spirit  in  its  strings, 
As  the  last  decree  is  spoken, 

To  its  source  exulting  springs. 
Descending  swiftly  from  the  skies, 

Her  guardian  angel  came, 
He  struck  God's  lightning  from  her  eyes, 

And  bore  Him  back  the  flame. 


POETS  OF  <THE  NATION*  149 


Before  the  sun  had  risen 

Thro'  the  lark-loved  morning  air, 
Her  young  soul  left  its  prison, 

Undefiled  by  sin  or  care. 
I  stood  beside  the  couch  in  tears 

Where  pale  and  calm  she  slept, 
And  tho'  I've  gaz'd  on  death  for  years, 

I  blush  not  that  I  wept. 
I  check'd  with  effort  pity's  sighs 

And  left  the  matron  there, 
To  close  the  curtains  of  her  eyes 

And  bind  her  golden  hair. 


ELLEN   MARY   PATRICK   DOWNING 

KNOWN  as  *  Mary  of  The  Nation?  her  poems  in  that  journal 
being  generally  signed  by  the  name  *  Mary '  alone.  She  was  born 
in  Cork  on  March  19,  1828,  and  died  on  January  27,  1869. 
In  1849  she  had  entered  a  convent.  Her  religious  poems 
have  been  collected  in  a  couple  of  volumes,  but  her  National 
and  love  poems  are  still  uncollected.  Her  poetry  has  the 
simplicity  and  unconscious  grace  of  a  bird's  song. 

VOICES  OF  THE  HEART,  1868,  1880  ;  POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN,  1881. 

MY  OWEN 

PROUD  of  you,  fond  of  you,  clinging  so  near  to  you, 
Light  is  my  heart  now  I  know  I  am  dear  to  you  ! 
Glad  is  my  voice  now,  so  free  it  may  sing  to  you 
All  the  wild  love  that  is  burning  within  for  you  ! 
Tell  me  once  more,  tell  it  over  and  over, 
The  tale  of  that  eve  that  first  saw  you  my  lover. 

Now  I  need  never  blush 

At  my  heart's  hottest  gush  ; 
The  wife  of  my  Owen  her  heart  may  discover. 


150  BOOK  III 


Proud  of  you,  fond  of  you,  having  all  right  in  you  ! 
Quitting  all  else  through  my  love  and  delight  in  you  ! 
Glad  is  my  heart,  since  'tis  beating  so  nigh  to  you  ! 
Light  is  my  step,  for  it  always  may  fly  to  you  ! 
Clasped  in  your  arms,  where  no  sorrow  can  reach  to  me, 
Reading  your  eyes  till  new  love  they  shall  teach  to  me, 

Though  wild  and  weak  till  now, 

By  that  blessed  marriage  vow, 
More  than  the  wisest  know  your  heart  shall  preach  to  me. 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  LISMORE 

This  poem,  inscribed  in  the  MS.  '  My  Last  Verses/  was  the  last  written  by 
1  Mary  '  before  entering  on  her  novitiate  in  1849. 

OLD  Church,  thou  still  art    Catholic  ! — e'en  dream  they  as  they 

may 

That  the  new  rites  and  worship  have  swept  the  old  away  ; 
There  is  no  form  of  beauty  raised  by  Nature,  or  by  art, 
That  preaches  not  God's  saving  truths  to  man's  adoring  heart ! 

In  vain  they  tore  the  altar  down  ;  in  vain  they  flung  aside 

The  mournful  emblem  of  the  death  which  our  sweet  Saviour  died ; 

In  vain  they  left  no  single  trace  of  saint  or  angel  here — 

Still  angel-spirits  haunt  the  ground,  and  to  the  soul  appear. 

I  marvel  how,  in  scenes  like  these,  so  coldly  they  can  pray, 

Nor  hold  sweet  commune  with  the  dead  who  once  knelt  down  as 

they  ; 

Yet  not  as  they,  in  sad  mistrust  or  sceptic  doubt — for,  oh, 
They  looked  in  hope  to  the  blessed  saints,  these  dead  of  long  ago. 

And,  then,  the  churchyard,  soft  and  calm,  spread  out  beyond  the 

scene 

With  sunshine  warm  and  soothing  shade  and  trees  upon  its  green  ; 
Ah  !  though  their  cruel  Church  forbid,  are  there  no  hearts  will 

pray 
For  the  poor  souls  that  trembling  left  that  cold  and  speechless 

clay? 


POETS   OF  'THE  NATION^  151 


My  God  !  I  am  a  Catholic  !     I  grew  into  the  ways 

Of  my  dear  Church  since  first  my  voice  could  lisp   a   word  of 

praise  ; 
But  oft  I  think  though  my  first  youth  were  taught  and  trained 

awrong, 
I  still  had  learnt  the  one  true  faith  from  Nature  and  from  song  ! 

For  still,  whenever  dear  friends  die,  it  is  such  joy  to  know 
They  are  not  all  beyond  the  care  that  healed  their  wounds  below, 
That  We  can  pray  them  into  peace,  and  speed  them  to  the  shore 
Where  clouds  and  cares  and  thorny  griefs  shall  vex  their  hearts  no 
more. 

And  the  sweet  saints,  so  meek  below,  so  merciful  above  ; 
And  the  pure  angels,  watching  still  with  such  untiring  love  ; 
And  the  kind  Virgin,  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  all  her  mother's  care, 
Who  prays  for  earth,  because  she  knows  what  breaking  hearts  are 
there  ! 

Oh,  let  us  lose  no  single  link  that  our  dear  Church  has  bound, 
To  keep  our  hearts  more  close  to  Heaven,   on  earth's  ungenial 

ground  ; 

But  trust  in  saint  and  martyr  yet,  and  o'er  their  hallowed  clay, 
Long  after  we  have  ceased  to  weep,  kneel  faithful  down  to  pray. 

So  shall  the  land  for  us  be  still  the  Sainted  Isle  of  old, 

Where  hymn  and  incense  rise  to   Heaven,  and  holy  beads  are 

told; 
And  even  the  ground  they  tore  from  God,  in  years  of  crime  and 

woe, 
Instinctive  with  His  truth  and  love,  shall  breathe  of  long  ago  ! 


ARTHUR  GERALD  GEOGHEGAN 

AUTHOR  of  THE  MONKS  OF  KILCREA,  a  collection  of  stories 
in  verse,  which  for  many  years  remained  anonymous,  and  was 
much  spoken  of.  It  was  first  published  in  1853,  and  a  second 


152  BOOK  III 


edition  was  issued,  with  other  poems,  in  1861.  It  was  trans- 
lated into  French  in  1858.  Its  author  was  born  in  Dublin  on 
June  i,  1 8 10,  and  entered  the  Excise  in  1830.  He  became  a 
collector  of  Inland  Revenue  in  1857,  and  retired  in  1877.  He 
died  in  Kensington  on  November  29,  1889,  and  was  buried  at 
Kensal  Green.  His  poems  appeared  chiefly  in  The  Nation 
and  in  other  Dublin  papers  and  magazines. 

AFTER  AUGHRIM 

Do  you  remember,  long  ago, 

Kathaleen  ? 

When  your  lover  whispered  low, 
'  Shall  I  stay  or  shall  I  go, 

Kathaleen  ? ' 

And  you  answered  proudly,  '  Go  ! 
And  join  King  James  and  strike  a  blow 

For  the  Green  ! ' 

Mavrone,  your  hair  is  white  as  snow, 

Kathaleen  ; 

Your  heart  is  sad  and  full  of  woe. 
Do  you  repent  you  made  him  go, 

Kathaleen  ? 

And  quick  you  answer  proudly,  *  No  ! 
For  better  die  with  Sarsfield  so 
Than  live  a  slave  without  a  blow 

For  the  Green  ! ' 


DENNY   LANE 

BORN  in  Cork  in  1818,  and  died  1896  in  that  city,  where  he 
was  a  successful  merchant  and  manufacturer.  He  is  only 
known  as  a  poet  by  two  pieces,  both  of  which  appeared  in 
The  Nation  in  1844  and  1845.  The  metrical  structure  of  this 
poem,  whether  intentionally  or  otherwise,  is  curiously  close  to 
that  of  Gaelic  verse. 


POETS   OF  17HE  NATION1  153 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  MAIDEN 

ON  Carrigdhoun  the  heath  is  brown, 

The  clouds  are  dark  o'er  Ardnalee, 
And  many  a  stream  comes  rushing  down 

To  swell  the  angry  Ownabwee. 
The  moaning  blast  is  sweeping  past 

Through  many  a  leafless  tree, 
And  I'm  alone — for  he  is  gone — 

My  hawk  is  flown — Ochone  machree  ! 

The  heath  was  brown  on  Carrigdhoun, 

Bright  shone  the  sun  on  Ardnalee, 
The  dark  green  trees  bent,  trembling,  down 

To  kiss  the  slumbering  Ownabwee. 
That  happy  day,  'twas  but  last  May — 

'Tis  like  a  dream  to  me — 
When  Donnell  swore — aye,  o'er  and  o'er — 

We'd  part  no  more — astor  machree  / 

Soft  April  showers  and  bright  May  flowers 

Will  bring  the  summer  back  again, 
But  will  they  bring  me  back  the  hours 

I  spent  with  my  brave  Donnell  then  ? 
Tis  but  a  chance,  for  he's  gone  to  France, 

To  wear  \htfleur-de-lis, 
But  I'll  follow  you,  my  Donnell  Dhu, 

For  still  I'm  true  to  you,  machree  ! 


MARY   KELLY 

BETTER  known  as  '  Eva,'  most  of  her  poems  having  appeared 
during  the  early  years  of  The  Nation  over  that  name.  Born  at 
Headfort,  County  Galway,  about  1825,  and  now  living  in 
Australia,  where  her  husband,  Dr.  Kevin  Izod  O'Doherty,  is  a 
successful  physician.  Her  poems  were  published  in  a  volume 
at  San  Francisco  in  1877. 


154  BOOK  III 


TlPPERARY 

WERE  you  ever  in  sweet  Tipperary,  where  the  fields  are  so  sunny 

and  green, 
And  the  heath-brown  Slieve-bloom  and  the   Galtees   look  down 

with  so  proud  a  mien  ? 

Tis  there  you  would  see  more  beauty  than  is  on  all  Irish  ground — 
God  bless  you,  my  sweet  Tipperary,  for  where  could  your  match 

be  found  ? 

They  say  that  your  hand  is  fearful,  that  darkness  is  in  your  eye  : 
But  I'll  not  let  them  dare  to  talk  so  black  and  bitter  a  lie. 
Oh  !  no,  macushla  storin  !  bright,  bright,  and  warm  are  you, 
With  hearts  as  bold  as  the  men  of  old,  to  yourselves  and  your 
country  true. 

And  when   there  is  gloom  upon   you,  bid  them    think  who  has 

brought  it  there— 
Sure,  a  frown  or  a  word  of  hatred  was  not  made  for  your  face  so 

fair  ; 
You've  a  hand  for  the  grasp  of  friendship— another  to  make  them 

quake, 
And  they're  welcome  to  whichsoever  it  pleases  them  most  to  take. 

Shall  our  homes,  like  the  huts  of  Connaught,  be  crumbled  before 

our  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  fly,  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  from  all  that  we  love  and 

prize  ? 

No  !  by  those  who  were  here  before  us,  no  churl  shall  our  tyrant  be  ; 
Our  land  it  is  theirs  by  plunder,  but,  by  Brigid,  ourselves  are  free. 

No  !  we  do  not  forget  the  greatness  did  once  to  sweet  Eire  belong  ; 
No  treason  or  craven  spirit  was  ever  our  race  among  ; 
And  no  frown  or  no  word  of  hatred  we  give— but  to  pay  them  back  ; 
In  evil  we  only  follow  our  enemies'  darksome  track. 

Oh  !  come  for  a  while  among  us,  and  give  us  the  friendly  hand, 
And  you'll  see  that  old  Tipperary  is  a  loving  and  gladsome  land  ; 
From  Upper  to  Lower  Ormond,  bright  welcomes  and  smiles  will 

spring —  * 

On  the  plains  of  Tipperary  the  stranger  is  like  a  king. 


POETS   OF  <THE  NATION  155 


JOHN   KEEGAN 

BORN  in  Queen's  County  about  1809,  and  died  in  1849.  He 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  The  Nation  and  other 
periodicals.  He  was  of  peasant  origin,  and  was  educated  at 
one  of  those  hedge-schools  which  have  done  more  than  is 
commonly  recognised  for  the  cultivation  of  Irish  intellect. 
His  poems  are  usually  more  distinguished  for  the  simplicity 
anci  pathetic  grace  of  the  '  Dark  Girl '  than  for  the  rough 
which  marks  this  '  Harvest  Hymn.' 


THE  IRISH  REAPER'S  HARVEST  HYMN 

ALL  hail  !  Holy  Mary,  our  hope  and  our  joy  ! 
Smile  down,  blessed  Queen  !  on  the  poor  Irish  boy 
Who  wanders  away  from  his  dear  beloved  home  ; 
O  Mary  !  be  with  me  wherever  I  roam. 

Be  with  me,  O  Mary  ! 

Forsake  me  not,  Mary  ! 

From  the  home  of  my  fathers  in  anguish  I  go, 
To  toil  for  the  dark-livered,  cold-hearted  foe, 
Who  mocks  me,  and  hates  me,  and  calls  me  a  slave, 
An  alien,  a  savage — all  names  but  a  knave. 

But,  blessed  be  Mary  ! 

My  sweet,  holy  Mary  ! 
The  bodach,  he  never  dare  call  me  a  knave. 

From  my  mother's  mud  sheeling  an  outcast  I  fly, 
With  a  cloud  on  my  heart  and  a  tear  in  my  eye  ; 
Oh  !  I  burn  as  I  think  that  if  Some  One  would  say, 
'  Revenge  on  your  tyrants  !'— but  Mary  !  I  pray, 

From  my  soul's  depth,  O  Mary  ! 

And  hear  me,  sweet  Mary  ! 
For  union  and  peace  to  Old  Ireland  I  pray. 


156  BOOK  III 


The  land  that  I  fly  from  is  fertile  and  fair. 

And  more  than  I  ask  or  I  wish  for  is  there, 

But  /  must  not  taste  the  good  things  that  I  see — 

*  There's  nothing  but  rags  and  green  rushes  for  me.' 1 

O  mild  Virgin  Mary  ! 

O  sweet  Mother  Mary  ! 
Who  keeps  my  rough  hand  from  red  murder  but  thee  ? 

But,  sure,  in  the  end  our  dear  freedom  we'll  gain, 
And  wipe  from  the  green  flag  each  Sassanach  stain. 
And  oh  !  Holy  Mary,  your  blessing  we  crave  ! 
Give  hearts  to  the  timid,  and  hands  to  the  brave  ; 

And  then,  Mother  Mary  ! 

Our  own  blessed  Mary  ! 
Light  liberty's  flame  in  the  hut  of  the  slave  ! 

THE  'DARK  GIRL'  BY  THE  'HOLY  WELL' 

I  think  it  was  in  the  midsummer  of  1832  that  I  joined  a  party  of  the  pea- 
santry of  my  native  village,  who  were  en  route  to  a  '  pilgrimage '  at  St.  John's 
Well,  near  the  town  of  Kilkenny.  The  journey  (about  twenty-five  Irish  miles) 
was  commenced  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  considerably  after  sunset 
when  we  reached  our  destination.  My  companions  immediately  set  about  the 
fulfilment  of  their  vows,  whilst  I,  who  was  but  a  mere  boy,  sat  down  on  the  green 
grass,  tired  and  in  ill-humour,  after  my  long  and  painful  tramp  over  a  hundred 
stony  hills  and  a  thousand  rugged  fields,  under  the  burning  sun  of  a  midsum- 
mer afternoon.  I  was  utterly  unable  to  perform  any  act  of  devotion,  nor,  I 
must  confess,  was  I  very  much  disposed  to  do  so,  even  were  I  able  ;  so  I  seated 
myself  quietly  amid  the  groups  of  beggars,  cripples,  '  dark  people,'  and  the 
other  various  classes  of  pilgrims  who  thronged  around  the  sacred  fountain. 
Among  the  crowd  I  had  marked  two  pilgrims,  who,  from  the  moment  I  saw 
them,  arrested  my  particular  attention.  One  of  these  was  an  aged  female, 
decently  clad  -the  other  was  a  very  fine  young  girl,  dressed  in  a  gown,  shawl 
and  bonnet  of  faded  black  satin.  The  girl  was  of  a  tall  and  noble  figure — 
strikingly  beautiful,  but  stone  blind.  I  learned  that  they  were  natives  of  the 
county  of  Wexford  ;  that  the  girl  had  lost  her  sight  in  brain  feve  ,  in  her 
childhood  ;  that  all  human  means  had  been  tried  for  her  cure,  but  in  vain  ;  and 
that  now,  as  a  last  resource,  they  had  travelled  all  the  way  to  pray  at  the 
shrine  of  St.  John,  and  bathe  her  sightless  orbs  in  the  healing  waters  of  his 
well.  It  is  believed  that  when  Heaven  wills  the  performance  of  cures,  the  sky 
opens  above  the  well,  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  and  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother, 
and  St.  John  descend  in  the  form  of  three  snow-whites,  and  descend  with  the 

1  Taken  literally  from  a  conversation  with  a  young  peasant  on  his  way 
to  reap  the  harvest  in  England. 


POETS   OF  <  THE  NATION*  157 


rapidity  of  lightning  into  the  depths  of  the  fountain.  No  person  but  those 
destined  to  be  cured  can  see  this  miraculous  phenomenon,  but  everybody  can 
hear  the  musical  sound  of  their  wings  as  they  rush  into  the  well  and  agitate 
the  waters  !  I  cannot  describe  how  sad  I  felt  myself,  too,  at  the  poor  girl's 
anguish,  for  I  had  almost  arrived  at  the  hope  that,  though  another  '  miracle ' 
was  never  wrought  at  St.  John's  Well,  Heaven  would  relent  on  this  occasion, 
and  restore  that  sweet  Wexford  girl  to  her  long-lost  sight.  She  returned, 
however,  as  she  came  -a  '  Dark  Girl ' — and  I  heard  afterwards  that  she  took 
ill  and  died  before  she  reached  home.  —  Authors  note. 

'  MOTHER  !  is  that  the  passing  bell  ? 

Or,  yet,  the  midnight  chime  ? 
Or,  rush  of  Angel's  golden  wings  ? 

Or  is  it  near  the  Time — 
The  time  when  God,  they  say,  comes  down 

This  weary  world  upon, 
With  Holy  Mary  at  His  right 

And,  at  His  left,  St.  John  ! 

'  I'm  dumb  !  my  heart  forgets  to  throb  ; 

My  blood  forgets  to  run  ; 
But  vain  my  sighs — in  vain  I  sob — 

God's  will  must  still  be  done. 
I  hear  but  tone  of  warning  bell, 

For  holy  priest  or  nun  ; 
On  earth,  God's  face  I'll  never  see  ! 

Nor  Mary  !  nor  St.  John  ! 

'  Mother  !  my  hopes  are  gone  again  ; 

My  heart  is  black  as  ever  ; — 
Mother  !  I  say,  look  forth  once  more, 

And  see  can  you  discover 
God's  glory  in  the  crimson  clouds — 

See  does  He  ride  upon 
That  perfumed  breeze  -  or  do  you  see 

The  Virgin,  or  St.  John  ? 

*  Ah,  no  !  ah,  no  !     Well,  God  of  Peace, 

Grant  me  Thy  blessing  still ; 
Oh,  make  me  patient  with  my  doom 
And  happy  at  Thy  will ; 


158  BOOK  III 


And  guide  my  footsteps  so  on  earth, 
That,  when  I'm  dead  and  gone, 

My  eyes  may  catch  Thy  shining  light, 
With  Mary  !  and  St.  John  ? 

*  Yet,  mother,  could  I  see  thy  smile, 

Before  we  part,  below — 
Or  watch  the  silver  moon  and  stars 

Where  Slaney's  ripples  flow  ; 
Oh  !  could  I  see  the  sweet  sun  shine 

My  native  hills  upon, 
I'd  never  love  my  God  the  less, 

Nor  Mary,  nor  St.  John  ! 

'  But  no,  ah  no  !  it  cannot  be  ! 
Yet,  mother  !  do  not  mourn  — 

Come,  kneel  again,  and  pray  to  God, 
In  peace,  let  us  return  ; 

The  Dark  Girl's  doom  must  aye  be  mine- 
But  Heaven  will  light  me  on, 

Until  I  find  my  way  to  God, 
And  Mary,  and  St.  John  ! ' 


MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY 

MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY  was  born  in  Cork  about  1817,  and 
wrote  much  verse  for  The  Nation  up  to  the  time  of  the  '48 
insurrection.  He  treated  the  result  of  that  attempt  as  final, 
and  ceased  his  connection  with  the  National  movement.  He 
became  a  police  magistrate  in  Dublin,  but  after  a  time 
relinquished  the  appointment  and  went  to  live  on  the 
Continent.  He  died  in  1889.  His  poems  are  spirited  and 
energetic,  but  do  not  show  signs  of  the  brilliant  wit  which,  as 


POETS   OF  <THE  NATION*  159 


Sir  Charles  G.  Duffy  tells  us,  used  to  delight  his  colleagues 
in  The  Nation  office.  While  he  was  a  police  magistrate,  a 
constable  giving  evidence  before  him  against  an  Irish- American 
suspected  of  seditious  designs  swore  that  the  prisoner  wore  '  a 
Republican  hat.'  *  A  Republican  hat  ! '  exclaimed  the  counsel 
for  the  prisoner  ;  *  does  your  worship  know  what  that  means  ? ' 
'I  presume,'  said  his  worship,  'a  Republican  hat  means  a  hat 
without  a  crown.' 

Wrote  '  The  Kishoge  Papers '  for  The  Dublin  University  Magazine. 
Published  in  1854  A  WATERLOO  COMMEMORATION  FOR  1854  ;  LAYS  OF 
THE  WAR,  1856 ;  HEINRICH  AND  LENORE,  1886.  Edited  SONGS  OF 
IRELAND,  1845. 

THE  SWORD 

WHAT  rights  the  brave  ? 

The  sword  ! 
What  frees  the  slave  ? 

The  sword  ! 
What  cleaves  in  twain 
The  despot's  chain, 
And  makes  his  gyves  and  dungeons  vain  ? 

The  sword  ! 

CHORUS 

Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever  ! 

Guard  of  the  free, 

We'll  cherish  thee, 
And  keep  thee  bright  for  ever  ! 

What  checks  the  knave  ? 

The  sword  ! 
What  smites  to  save  ? 

The  sword  ! 

What  wreaks  the  wrong 
Unpunished  long, 
At  last,  upon  the  guilty  strong  ? 

The  sword  ! 


160  BOOK  III 


What  shelters  Right  ? 

The  sword  ! 
What  makes  it  might  ? 

The  sword  ! 

What  strikes  the  crown 
Of  tyrants  down, 
And  answers  with  its  flash  their  frown  ? 

The  sword  ! 

CHORUS 
Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never,  &c. 

Still  be  thou  true, 

Good  sword  ! 
We'll  die  or  do, 

Good  sword  ! 
Leap  forth  to  light 
If  tyrants  smite, 
And  trust  our  arms  to  wield  thee  right, 

Good  sword  ! 

CHORUS 

Yes  !  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever  ! 

Guard  of  the  free, 

WTe'll  cherish  thee, 
And  keep  thee  bright  for  ever  ! 


MICHAEL   TORMEY 

THE  REV.  MICHAEL  TORMEY  was  born  in  Westmeath  1820,  and 
died  in  1893.  He  edited  The  Tablets  one.  time,  and  was  keenly 
interested  in  the  Tenant  League  movement  which  succeeded 
the  Famine,  and  was  partly  evoked  by  it.  He  was  not 
distinguished  as  a  poet,  but  '  The  Ancient  Race '  has  in  it  a 
surge  of  heartfelt  anguish  and  wrath  which  renders  not  unfitly 
the  master  passion  of  the  Irish  peasant. 


POETS   OF  'THE  NATION*  161 


THE  ANCIENT  RACE 

This  poem  was  written  at  the  era  of  the  Irish  Tenant  League  (1850-56), 
when  the  principles  of  the  land  struggle  were  first  formulated. 

WHAT  shall  become  of  the  ancient  race, 
The  noble  Keltic  island  race  ? 
Like  cloud  on  cloud  o'er  the  azure  sky, 
When  winter  storms  are  loud  and  high, 
Their  dark  ships  shadow  the  ocean's  face — 
What  shall  become  of  the  Keltic  race  ? 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race — 

The  poor,  unfriended,  faithful  race  ? 

Where  ploughman's  song  made  the  hamlet  ring, 

The  hawk  and  the  owlet  flap  their  wing ; 

The  village  homes,  oh,  who  can  trace — 

God  of  our  persecuted  race  ! 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 
Is  treason's  stigma  on  their  face  ? 
Be  they  cowards  or  traitors  ?     Go — 
Ask  the  shade  of  England's  foe  ; 
See  the  gems  her  crown  that  grace  ; 
They  tell  a  tale  of  the  ancient  race. 

They  tell  a  tale  of  the  ancient  race — 
Of  matchless  deeds  in  danger's  face  ; 
They  speak  of  Britain's  glory  fed 
With  blood  of  Kelts,  right  bravely  shed  ; 
Of  India's  spoil  and  Frank's  disgrace  — 
Such  tale  they  tell  of  the  ancient  race. 

Then  why  cast  out  the  ancient  race  ? 
Grim  want  dwelt  with  the  ancient  race, 
And  hell-born  laws,  with  prison  jaws  ; 
And  greedy  lords,  with  tiger  maws, 
Have  swallowed — swallow  still  apace — 
The  limbs  and  blood  of  the  ancient  race. 

Will  no  one  shield  the  ancient  race  ? 
They  fly  their  fathers'  burial  place  ; 


162  BOOK  UI 


The  proud  lords  with  the  heavy  purse, 
Their  fathers'  shame— their  people's  curse- 
Demons  in  heart,  nobles  in  face — 
They  dig  a  grave  for  the  ancient  race  ! 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 
Shall  all  forsake  their  dear  birthplace, 
Without  one  struggle  strong  to  keep 
The  old  soil  where  their  fathers  sleep  ? 
The  dearest  land  on  earth's  wide  space — 
Why  leave  it  so,  O  ancient  race  ? 

What  shall  befall  the  ancient  race  ? 
Light  up  one  hope  for  the  ancient  race  j 
Oh,  priest  of  God — Soggarth  Aroon  ! 
Lead  but  the  way,  we'll  go  full  soon  ; 
Is  there  a  danger  we  will  not  face, 
To  keep  old  homes  for  the  Irish  race  ? 

They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race — 
They  must  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
Come,  gallant  Kelts,  and  take  your  stand- 
And  form  a  league  to  save  the  land ; 
The  land  of  faith,  the  land  of  grace, 
The  land  of  Erin's  ancient  race  ! 

They  must  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
They  shall  not  go,  the  ancient  race  ! 
The  cry  swells  loud  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  emerald  vale  to  mountain  hoar, 
From  altar  high  to  market-place — 
*  THEY  SHALL  NOT  GO,  the  ancient  race  ! 5 


THOMAS  D'ARCY   McGEE 

OF  all  the  rhetorical  qualities  of  poetry — rhythm  and  phrase 
and  picturesque  diction — McGee  possessed  a  greater  measure 
than  any  other  of  The  Nation  poets.  But  he  wrote  with  a 


POETS  OF  <THE  NATION*  163 


careless  energy  which,  if  it  always  produced  something 
remarkable,  yet  rarely  left  it  strong  and  finished  in  every  part. 
He  was  born  in  Carlingford,  County  Louth,  in  1825.  After 
much  success  as  a  journalist  in  America,  where  he  edited  The 
Boston  Pilot,  he  came  home  and  joined  The  Nation  and  its 
political  movement  in  1844.  He  escaped,  with  a  price  on  his 
head,  after  the  outbreak  of  1848,  and  eventually  settled  in 
Canada,  where  he  entered  the  legislature  and  became  a 
Minister  of  the  Crown.  He  took  a  leading  part  in  the  federa- 
tion of  the  Canadian  States.  He  revisited  Ireland  during  the 
time  of  the  Fenian  movement,  which  he  denounced  with  a 
fervour  which,  in  view  of  his  own  antecedents,  caused  intense 
bitterness  of  feeling,  and  led  to  the  dreadful  crime  of  his  assass- 
ination in  Ottawa  in  1868. 

McGee  was  a  prolific  and  versatile  writer.  He  published  in  1847  IRISH 
WRITERS  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  ;  HISTORY  OF  THE  IRISH 
SETTLERS  IN  AMERICA,  1851;  MEMOIRS  OF  C.  G.  DPFFY,  1849;  LIF>E 
OF  BISHOP  MAGIN,  1856  ;  LIFE  OF  ARTMCMURROUGH,  1847  ;  HISTORY 
OF  IRELAND  ;  and  contributed  numberless  poems  to  The  Nation  and  other 
periodicals.  A  collected  edition  of  his  poems  has  been  edited  by  Mrs.  J. 
Sadleir,  New  York,  1869. 

THE  DEAD  ANTIQUARY  O'DONOVAN 

FAR  are  the  Gaelic  tribes  and  wide 
Scattered  round  earth  on  every  side, 

For  good  or  ill  ; 

They  aim  at  all  things,  rise  or  fall, 
Succeed  or  perish— but,  through  all, 

Love  Erin  still. 

Although  a  righteous  Heaven  decrees  J 
'Twixt  us  and  Erin  stormy  seas 

And  barriers  strong — 
Of  care,  and  circumstance,  and  cost — 
Yet  count  not  all  your  absent  lost, 

Oh,  Land  of  Song  ! 


These  lines  were  written  in  America. 

M  2 


164  BOOK  III 


Above  your  roofs  no  star  can  rise 
That  does  not  lighten  in  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  any  set, 

That  ever  shed  a  cheering  beam 
On  Irish  hillside,  street  or  stream, 

That  we  forget. 

And  thus  it  comes  that  even  I, 
Though  weakly  and  unworthily, 

Am  moved  by  grief 
To  join  the  melancholy  throng 
And  chant  the  sad  entombing  song 

Above  the  Chief. 

I  would  not  do  the  dead  a  wrong  : 
If  graves  could  yield  a  growth  of  song 

Like  flowers  of  May, 

Then  Mangan  from  the  tomb  might  raise 
One  of  his  old  resurgent  lays — 

But,  well-a-day  ! 

He,  close  beside  his  early  friend, 
By  the  stark  shepherd  safely  penned, 

Sleeps  out  the  night  ; 
So  his  weird  numbers  never  more 
The  sorrow  of  the  isle  shall  pour, 

In  tones  of  might. 

Though  haply  still,  by  Liffey's  tide, 
That  mighty  master  must  abide, 

Who  voiced  our  grief 
O'er  Davis  lost  ; l  and  he  who  gave 
His  free  frank  tribute  to  the  grave 

Of  Eire's  Chief;2 


1  Samuel  Ferguson. 

2  Denis  Florence  McCarthy,  whose  poem  on  the  death  of  O'Connell 
was  one  of  the  noblest  tributes  paid  to  the  memory  of  the  great  Tribune. — 
Author's  note. 


POETS   OF  ^THE  NATION*  165 

Yet  must  it  not  be  said  that  we 
Failed  in  the  rites  of  minstrelsy, 

So  dear  to  souls 

Like  his  whom  lately  death  had  ta'en, 
Altho'  the  vast  Atlantic  main 

Between  us  rolls  ! 

Too  few,  too  few,  among  our  great, 
In  camp  or  cloister,  Church  or  State, 

Wrought  as  he  wrought  ; 
Too  few,  of  all  the  brave  we  trace 
Among  the  champions  of  our  race, 

Gave  us  his  thought. 

He  toiled  to  make  our  story  stand, 
As  from  Time's  reverent,  Runic  hand 

It  came  undecked 
By  fancies  false  ;  erect,  alone, 
The  monumental  Arctic  stone 

Of  ages  wrecked. 

He  marshalled  Brian  on  the  plain, 
Sailed  in  the  galleys  of  the  Dane  ; 

Earl  Richard  too, 

Fell  Norman  as  he  was  and  fierce — 
Of  him  and  his  he  dared  rehearse 

The  story  true. 

O'er  all  low  limits  still  his  mind 
Soared  catholic  and  unconfined, 

From  malice  free. 
On  Irish  soil  he  only  saw 
One  State,  One  People,  and  One  Law, 

One  Destiny. 

Truth  was  his  solitary  test, 

His  star,  his  chart,  his  east,  his  west ; 

Nor  is  there  aught 
In  text,  in  ocean,  or  in  mine, 
Of  greater  worth,  or  more  divine 

Than  this  he  sought. 


1 66  BOOK  III 


With  gentle  hand  he  rectified 
The  errors  of  old  bardic  pride, 

And  set  aright 

The  story  of  our  devious  past. 
And  left  it,  as  it  now  must  last, 

Full  in  the  light. 

To  DUFFY  IN  PRISON 

'TWAS  but  last  night  I  traversed  the  Atlantic's  furrow'd  face— 
The  stars  but  thinly  colonised  the  wilderness  of  space — 
A  white  sail  glinted  here  and  there,  and  sometimes  o'er  the  swell, 
Rang  the  seaman's  song  of  labour  or  the  silvery  night-  watch  bell ; 
I  dreamt  I  reached  the  Irish  shore  and  felt  my  heart  rebound 
From  wall  to  wall  within  my  breast,  as  I  trod  that  holy  ground  ; 
sat  down  by  my  own  hearth-stone,  beside  my  love  again — 
met  my  friends,  and  him  the  first  of  friends  and  Irish  men. 

saw  once  more  the  dome-like  brow,  the  large  and  lustrous  eyes  ; 
mark'd  upon  the  sphinx-like  face  the  cloud  of  thoughts  arise, 
heard  again  that  clear  quick  voice  that  as  a  trumpet  thrill'd 
The  souls  of  men,  and  wielded  them  even  as  the^peaker  will'd — 
I  felt  the  cordial-clasping  hand  that  never  feigned  regard, 
Nor  ever  dealt  a  muffled  blow,  or  nicely  weighed  reward. 
My  friend  !  my  friend  ! — oh,  would  to  God  that  you   were  here 

with  me — 
A-watching  in  the  starry  West  for  Ireland's  liberty  ! 

Oh,  brothers,  I  can  well  declare,  who  read  it  like  a  scroll, 
What  Roman  characters  were  stamp'd  upon  that  Roman  soul. 
The  courage,  constancy  and  love — the  old-time  faith  and  truth  - 
The  wisdom  of  the  sages — the  sincerity  of  youth  — 
Like  an  oak  upon  our  native  hills,  a  host  might  camp  there-under, 
Yet  it  bare  the  song-birds  in  its  core,  amid  the  storm  and  thunder ; 
It  was  the  gentlest,  firmest  soul  that  ever,  lamp-like,  showed 
A  young  race  seeking  freedom  up  her  misty  mountain  road. 

Like  a  convoy  from  the  flag-ship  our  fleet  is  scattered  far, 
And  you,  the  valiant  Admiral,  chained  and  imprisoned  are — 
Like  a  royal  galley's  precious  freight  flung  on  sea-sunderd  strands, 
The  diamond  wit  and  golden  worth  are  far-cast  on  the  lands, 


POETS   OF  <THE  NATION'  167 

And  I,  whom  most  you  lov'd,  am  here,  and  I  can  but  indite 
My  yearnings  and  my  heart-hopes,  and  curse  them  while  I  write. 
Alas  !  alas  !  ah,  what  are  prayers,  and  what  are  moans  or  sighs, 
When  the  heroes  of  the  land  are  lost— of  the  land  that  will  not 

RISE? 

They  will  bring  you  in  their  manacles  beneath  their  blood-red  rag, 
They  will  chain  you  like  the  conqueror  to  some  sea-moated  crag, 
To  their  slaves  it  will  be  given  your  great  spirit  to  annoy, 
To  fling  falsehood  in  your  cup,  and  to  break  your  martyr  joy ; 
But  you  will  bear  it  nobly,  as  Regulus  did  of  eld, 
The  oak  will  be  the  oak,  and  honoured  e'en  when  fell'd. 
Change  is  brooding  over  earth  ;  it  will  find  you  'mid  the  main, 
And,  throned  between  its  wings,  you'll  reach  your  native  land  again. 


INFELIX  FELIX 

Phelim  or  Felix  O'Neill,  leader  of  the  rising  of  1641,  which  began  the  Nine 
Years'  War.  He  was  executed  in  Dublin  by  Cromwell,  after  having  refused 
to  purchase  liberty  by  implicating  Charles  I.  in  the  rebellion. 

WHY  is  his  name  unsung,  O  minstrel  host  ? 
Why  do  ye  pass  his  memory  like  a  ghost  ? 
Why  is  no  rose,  no  laurel,  on  his  grave  ? 
Was  he  not  constant,  vigilant  and  brave  ? 
Why,  when  that  hero-age  ye  deify, 
Why  do  ye  pass  Infelix  Felix  by  ? 

He  rose  the  first — he  looms  the  morning-star 
Of  the  long,  glorious,  unsuccessful  war. 
England  abhors  him  !     Has  she  not  abhorred 
All  who  for  Ireland  ventured  life  or  word  ? 
What  memory  would  she  not  have  cast  away 
That  Ireland  hugs  in  her  heart's  heart  to-day? 

He  rose  in  wrath  to  free  his  fetter'd  land. 

*  There's  blood — there's  Saxon  blood — upon  his  hand.' 

Ay,  so  they  say  !     Three  thousand,  less  or  more, 

He  sent  untimely  to  the  Stygian  shore. 

They  were  the  keepers  of  the  prison-gate — 

He  slew  them  his  whole  race  to  liberate. 


168  BOOK  III 


0  clear-eyed  poets  !  ye  who  can  descry 
Through  vulgar  heaps  of  dead  where  heroes  lie — 
Ye,  to  whose  glance  the  primal  mist  is  clear  — 
Behold,  there  lies  a  trampled  noble  here  ! 

Shall  we  not  leave  a  mark  ?  shall  we  not  do 
Justice  to  one  so  hated  and  so  true  ? 

If  ev'n  his  hand  and  hilt  were  so  distain'd — 
If  he  was  guilty,  as  he  has  been  blamed — 
His  death  redeem'd  his  life.    He  chose  to  die 
Rather  than  get  his  freedom  with  a  lie. 
Plant  o'er  his  gallant  heart  a  laurel-tree, 
So  may  his  head  within  the  shadow  be. 

1  mourn  for  thee,  O  hero  of  the  North — 
God  judge  thee  gentler  than  we  do  on  earth  ! 
I  mourn  for  thee,  and  for  our  land,  because 
She  dare  not  own  thee  martyr  in  our  cause  ; 
But  they,  our  poets,  they  who  justify— 
They  will  not  let  thy  memory  rot  or  die  ! 

SALUTATION  TO  THE  KELTS 

HAIL  to  our  Keltic  brethren,  wherever  they  may  be, 
In  the  far  woods  of  Oregon  or  o'er  the  Atlantic  sea  ; 
Whether  they  guard  the  banner  of  St.  George  in  Indian  vales, 
Or  spread  beneath  the  nightless  North  experimental  sails — 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

Though  fallen  the  state  of  Erin,  and  changed  the  Scottish  land, 
Though  small  the  power  of  Mona,  though  unwaked  Lewellyn's 

band, 

Though  Ambrose  Merlin's  prophecies  are  held  as  idle  tales, 
Though  lona's  ruined  cloisters  are  swept  by  northern  gales  : 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

In  Northern  Spain  and  Italy  our  brethren  also  dwell 
And  brave  are  the  traditions  of  their  fathers  that  they  tell : 


POETS   OF  'THE  NATION*  169 


The  Eagle  or  the  Crescent  in  the  dawn  of  history  pales 
Before    the  advancing  banners   of   the  great   Rome-conquering 
Gaels. 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

A  greeting  and  a  promise  unto  them  all  we  send  ; 
Their  character  our  charter  is,  their  glory  is  our  end, — 
Their  friend  shall  be  our  friend,  our  foe  whoe'er  assails 
The  glory  or  the  story  of  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 
Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 


DENIS  FLORENCE  MCCARTHY 

DENIS  FLORENCE  MCCARTHY  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1817. 
He  began  to  write  for  The  Nation  in  1843  and  was  a  frequent 
and  valued  contributor  to  it,  both  in  prose  and  poetry.  He 
also  wrote  for  The  Dublin  University  Magazine  and  other 
periodicals  of  the  day.  He  was  appointed  Professor  of 
English  Literature  and  Poetry  in  the  Catholic  University  of 
Ireland  in  1854,  and  died  in  1882. 

He  was  an  industrious  writer,  having  produced  five  volumes 
of  original  verse  as  well  as  numerous  translations  from  Calderon, 
and  his  work  was  always  on  a  high  level.  The  strain  of 
indignant  satire  in  '  Cease  to  do  Evil '  does  not  often  recur — 
his  imagination  dwelt  rather  on  the  sweet  and  gracious  aspects 
of  life  and  Nature,  and  these  he  rendered  in  verse  marked  by 
sincere  feeling,  wide  culture,  and  careful  though  unpretentious 
art. 

BALLADS,  POEMS,  AND  LYRICS  was  published  in  Dublin,  1850;  ODE 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  EARL  OF  BELFAST,  1854  ;  UNDER-GLIMPSES 
AND  OTHER  POEMS,  1857  ;  THE  BELL-FOUNDER  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 
1857  ;  THE  CENTENARY  OF  MOORE,  1880.  His  collected  poems  have 
been  published  (with  many  omissions)  in  Dublin  1884.  In  18.46  he  edited 
THE  BOOK  OF  IRISH  BALLADS  and  THE  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS  OF 
IRELAND. 


170  BOOK  III 


1  CEASE  TO  DO  EVIL— LEARN  TO  DO  WELL.'  1 

O  THOU  whom  sacred  duty  hither  calls, 

Some  glorious  hours  in  freedom's  cause  to  dwell, 

Read  the  mute  lesson  on  thy  prison  walls— 
'  Cease  to  do  evil — learn  to  do  well  ! ' 

If  haply  thou  art  one  of  genius  vast, 

Of  generous  heart,  of  mind  sublime  and  grand, 
Who  all  the  spring-time  of  thy  life  hast  passed 

Battling  with  tyrants  for  thy  native  land  — 
If  thou  hast  spent  thy  summer,  as  thy  prime, 

The  serpent  brood  of  bigotry  to  quell, 
Repent,  repent  thee  of  thy  hideous  crime — 

*  Cease  to  do  evil — learn  to  do  well ! ' 

If  thy  great  heart  beat  warmly  in  the  cause 

Of  outraged  man,  whate'er  his  race  might  be — 
If  thou  hast  preached  the  Christian's  equal  laws, 

And  stayed  the  lash  beyond  the  Indian  sea — 
If  at  thy  call  a  nation  rose  sublime — 

If  at  thy  voice  seven  million  fetters  fell, 
Repent,  repent  thee  of  thy  hideous  crime — 

'  Cease  to  do  evil — learn  to  do  well ! ' 

If  thou  hast  seen  thy  country's  quick  decay, 

And,  like  a  prophet,  raised  thy  saving  hand, 
And  pointed  out  the  only  certain  way 

To  stop  the  plague  that  ravaged  o'er  the  land — 
If  thou  hast  summoned  from  an  alien  clime 

Her  banished  senate  here  at  home  to  dwell, 
Repent,  repent  thee  of  thy  hideous  crime — • 

'  Cease  to  do  evil — learn  to  do  well  ! ' 


1  Inscription  on  the  prison  where  O'Connell,  his  son  John,  T.  M.  Ray, 
Thomas  Steele,  Richard  Barrett,  John  Grey,  and  Charles  Gavan  Duffy 
were  imprisoned  on  the  verdict  for  conspiracy,  afterwards  quashed  by  the 
House  of  Lords. 


POETS   OF  THE  NATION'  171 

Or  if,  perchance,  a  younger  man  thou  art, 
Whose  ardent  soul  in  throjpbings  doth  aspire, 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  to  play  the  patriot's  part 
In  the  bright  footsteps  of  thy  glorious  sire  ! 

If  all  the  pleasures  of  life's  youthful  time 
Thou  hast  abandoned  for  the  martyr's  cell, 

Do  thou  repent  thee  of  thy  hideous  crime— 
4  Cease  to  do  evil— learn  to  do  well ! ' 

Or  art  thou  one  l  whom  early  science  led 

To  walk  with  Newton  through  the  immense  of  heaven, 
Who  soared  with  Milton  and  with  Mina  bled, 

And  all  thou  hadst  in  Freedom's  cause  hast  given  ? 
Oh  !  fond  enthusiast — in  the  after-time 

Our  children's  children  of  your  worth  shall  tell ! 
England  proclaims  thy  honesty  a  crime  — 

*  Cease  to  do  evil— learn  to  do  well  ! 

Or  art  thou  one2  whose  strong  and  fearless  pen 

Roused  the  young  isle,  and  bade  it  dry  its  tears, 
And  gathered  round  thee  ardent,  gifted  men, 

The  hope  of  Ireland  in  the  coming  years— 
Who  dares  in  prose  and  heart-awakening  rhyme 

Bright  hopes  to  breathe,  and  bitter  truths  to  tell  ? 
Oh  !  dangerous  criminal,  repent  thy  crime — 

4  Cease  to  do  evil — learn  to  do  well ! ' 

*  Cease  to  do  evil ' — aye  !  ye  madmen,  cease  ! 

Cease  to  love  Ireland,  cease  to  serve  her  well, 
Make  with  her  foes  a  foul  and  fatal  peace, 

And  quick  will  ope  your  darkest,  dreariest  cell. 

*  Learn  to  do  well ' — aye  !  learn  to  betray — 

Learn  to  revile  the  land  in  which  you  dwell ; 
England  will  bless  you  on  your  altered  way — 
'  Cease  to  do  evil — learn  to  do  well  ! ' 


1  Thomas  Steele,  '  a  young  Protestant  of  Cromwellian  descent,  whose 
enthusiasm  for  liberty  led  him  to  volunteer  among  the  Spanish  revolutionists 
under  Mina.' 

2  C.  G.  Duffy. 


172  BOOK  III 


SPRING  FLOWERS  FROM  IRELAND 

9 

ON   RECEIVING  AN   EARLY   CROCUS   AND   SOME  VIOLETS   IN   A 
SECOND   LETTER   FROM   IRELAND 

Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere  has  written  the  following  criticism  on  this  poem : — 
'  It  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  singular — indeed,  of  extraordinary— beauty.  It 
has  that  union  of  pathos  and  moral  thought,  with  fineness  of  execution,  which 
belongs  to  some  of  Wordsworth's  later  poems.  The  love  of  our  native  land 
has  never  been  expressed  with  finer  feeling,  or  with  a  finer  handling,  than  in 
this  poem.' 

WITHIN  the  letter's  rustling  fold 

I  find,  once  more — a  glad  surprise  : 
A  little  tiny  cup  of  gold — 

Two  lovely  violet  eyes  ; — • 
A  cup  of  gold  with  emeralds  set, 

Once  filled  with  wine  from  happier  spheres  ; 
Two  little  eyes  so  lately  wet 

With  spring's  delicious  dewy  tears. 

Oh  !  little  eyes  that  wept  and  laughed, 

Now  bright  with  smiles,  with  tears  now  dim  ; 
Oh  !  little  cup  that  once  was  quaffed 

By  fay-queens  fluttering  round  thy  rim. 
I  press  each  silken  fringe's  fold — 

Sweet  little  eyes,  once  more  ye  shine  ; 
I  kiss  thy  lip,  oh  !  cup  of  gold, 

And  find  thee  full  of  memory's  wine. 

Within  their  violet  depths  I  gaze, 

And  see,  as  in  the  camera's  gloom, 
The  Island  with  its  belt  of  bays, 

Its  chieftain'd  heights  all  capped  with  broom  ; 
Which,  as  the  living  lens  it  fills, 

Now  seems  a  giant  charmed  to  sleep — 
Now  a  broad  shield  embossed  with  hills, 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

When  will  the  slumbering  giant  wake  ? 

When  will  the  shield  defend  and  guard? 
Ah,  me  !  prophetic  gleams  forsake 

The  once  rapt  eyes  of  seer  or  bard. 


POETS  OF  'THE  NATION'  173 

Enough  if,  shunning  Samson's  fate, 

It  doth  not  all  its  vigour  yield  ; 
Enough  if  plenteous  peace,  though  late, 

May  rest  beneath  the  sheltering  shield. 

I  see  the  long  and  lone  defiles 

Of  Keimaneigh's  bold  rocks  uphurled  ; 
I  see  the  golden-fruited  isles 

That  gem  the  queen-lakes  of  the  world  ; 
I  see — a  gladder  sight  to  me — 

By  soft  Shanganagh's  silver  strand 
The  breaking  of  a  sapphire  sea 

Upon  the  golden-fretted  sand. 

Swiftly  the  tunnel's  rock-hewn  pass, 

Swiftly,  the  fiery  train  runs  through — 
Oh  !  what  a  glittering  sheet  of  glass  ! 

Oh  !  what  enchantment  meets  my  view  ! 
With  eyes  insatiate  I  pursue, 

Till  Bray's  bright  headland  bounds  the  scene — 
Tis  Baiae  by  a  softer  blue  ! 

Gaeta  by  a  gladder  green  ! 

By  tasselled  groves,  o'er  meadows  fair, 

I'm  carried  in  my  blissful  dream, 
To  where — a  monarch  in  the  air — 

The  pointed  mountain  reigns  supreme  ; 
There,  in  a  spot  remote  and  wild, 

I  see  once  more  the  rustic  seat 
Where  Carrigoona,  like  a  child, 

Sits  at  the  mightier  mountain's  feet 

There  by  the  gentler  mountain's  slope — 

That  happiest  year  of  many  a  year, 
That  first  swift  year  of  love  and  hope — 

With  her  then  dear  and  ever  dear, 
I  sat  upon  the  rustic  seat — 

Jhe  seat  an  aged  bay-tree  crowns — 
And  saw  outspreading  from  our  feet 

The  golden  glory  of  the  Downs. 


174  BOOK  in 


The  furze-crowned  heights,  the  glorious  glen, 

The  white-walled  chapel  glistening  near, 
The  house  of  God,  the  homes  of  men, 

The  fragrant  hay,  the  ripening  ear  ; 
There,  where  there  seemed  nor  sin,  nor  crime, 

There  in  God's  sweet  and  wholesome  air — 
Strange  book  to  read  at  such  a  time  — 

We  read  of  Vanity's  false  Fair. 

We  read  the  painful  pages  through — 

Perceived  the  skill,  admired  the  art, 
Felt  them  if  true,  n'ot  wholly  true — 

A  truer  truth  was  in  our  heart. 
Save  fear  and  love  of  ONE,  hath  proved 

The  sage,  how  vain  is  all  below  ; 
And  one  was  there  who  feared  and  loved, 

And  one  who  loved  that  she  was  so. 

The  vision  spreads,  the  memories  grow, 

Fair  phantoms  crowd  the  more  I  gaze. 
Oh  !  cup  of  gold,  with  wine  o'erflow, 

I'll  drink  to  those  departed  days  : 
And  when  I  drain  the  golden  cup 

To  them,  to  those,  I  ne'er  can  see, 
With  wine  of  hope  I'll  fill  it  up, 

And  drink  to  days  that  yet  may  be. 

I've  drunk  the  future  and  the  past, 

Now  for  a  draught  of  warmer  wine — 
One  draught  the  sweetest  and  the  last — • 

Lady,  I'll  drink  to  thee  and  thine. 
These  flowers  that  to  my  breast  I  fold, 

Into  my  very  heart  have  grown — 
To  thee  I  drain  the  cup  of  gold, 

And  think  the  violet  eyes  thine  own. 


POETS  OF  17HE  NATION'  175 


MICHAEL   DOHENY 

DOHENY  was  born  at  Brookhill,  County  Tipperary,  in  1805.  He 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  The  Nation.  Like  most  of  his 
colleagues,  he  acted  the  lessons  he  had  tried  to  teach  in  1848, 
and  after  the  failure  of  the  insurrection  was  '  on  his  keeping ' 
in  Ireland,  with  a  reward  of  ^300  on  his  head,  for  some  time, 
during  which  the  following  poem  may  have  been  written.  He 
at  last  succeeded  in  evading  the  police  and  escaping  to 
New  York,  where  he  became  a  lawyer,  and  subsequently  fought 
in  the  Civil  War.  A  small  prose  work  of  his,  THE  FELON'S 
TRACK,  has  attained  much  popularity. 

A   CUSHLA  GAL  MO    CHREE.1 

THE  long,  long  wished-for  hour  has  come, 

Yet  come,  astor,  in  vain  ; 
And  left  thee  but  the  wailing  hum 

Of  sorrow  and  of  pain  ; 
My  light  of  life,  my  only  love  ! 

Thy  portion,  sure,  must  be 
Man's  scorn  below,  God's  wrath  above — 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

I've  given  for  thee  my  early  prime, 

And  manhood's  teeming  years  ; 
I've  blessed  thee  in  my  merriest  time, 

And  shed  with  thee  my  tears  ; 
And,  mother,  though  thou  cast  away 

The  ch'ild  who'd  die  for  thee, 
My  fondest  wishes  still  should  pray 

For  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

For  thee  I've  tracked  the  mountain's  sides, 

And  slept  within  the  brake, 
More  lonely  than  the  swan  that  glides 

On  Lua's  fairy  lake. 


Bright  vein  of  my  heart. ' 


176  BOOK  III 


The  rich  have  spurned  me  from  their  door, 

Because  I'd  make  thee  free  ; 
Yet  still  I  love  thee  more  and  more, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  / 

I've  run  the  outlaw's  wild  career, 

And  borne  his  load  of  ill ; 
His  rocky  couch — his  dreamy  fear — 

With  fixed,  sustaining  will  ; 
And  should  his  last  dark  chance  befall, 

Even  that  shall  welcome  be  ; 
In  death  I'd  love  thee  best  of  all, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

'Twas  told  of  thee  the  world  around, 

'Twas  hoped  for  thee  by  all, 
That  with  one  gallant  sunward  bound 

Thou'dst  burst  long  ages'  thrall ; 
Thy  faith  was  tried,  alas  !  and  those 

Who  perilled  all  for  thee 
Were  cursed  and  branded  as  thy  foes, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

What  fate  is  thine,  unhappy  Isle, 

When  even  the  trusted  few 
Would  pay  thee  back  with  hate  and  guile, 

When  most  they  should  be  true  ! 
'Twas  not  my  strength  or  spirit  quailed, 

Or  those  who'd  die  for  thee — 
Who  loved  thee  truly  have  not  failed, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  / 


LADY   WILDE 


JANE  FRANCESCA  ELGEE,  the  daughter  of  an  archdeacon  of 
the  Church  of  Ireland,  was  born  in  Wexford  about  1820,  and 
began  to  write  for  The  Nation  in  1844.  Her  contributions 


POETS   OF   1THE   NATION*  177 

were  usually  signed  *  Speranza.'  In  1851  she  married  Mr. 
(afterwards  Sir)  W.  R.  Wilde,  a  distinguished  oculist  and 
antiquary.  The  passionate  rhetoric  of  her  verse,  which 
reflected  her  own  fearless  and  generous  character,  helped  in 
no  small  degree  to  make  The  Nation  a  political  force,  but,  as  in 
the  case  of  many  other  Irish  writers  of  both  prose  and  verse, 
she  won  her  true  literary  success  in  the  former  medium.  Her 
translation  of  the  AMBER-WITCH  and  her  ANCIENT  LEGENDS 
OF  IRELAND  are  work  of  the  highest  order  of  their  class.  She 
died  in  London  in  1896. 

THE  FAMINE  YEAR 

WEARY  men,  what  reap  ye  ? — '  Golden  corn  for  the  stranger.' 
What  sow  ye  ? — '  Human  corses  that  await  for  the  Avenger.' 
Fainting  forms,  all  hunger-stricken,  what  see  you  in  the  offing  ? 

*  Stately  ships  to  bear  our  food  away  amid  the  stranger's  scoffing. 
There's   a   proud   array   of  soldiers — what  do   they   round   your 

door? 

*  They  guard  our  master's  granaries  from  the  thin  hands  of  the 

poor.' 
Pale  mothers,  wherefore  weeping  ? — '  Would  to  God  that  we  were 

dead — 
Our  children  swoon  before  us,  and  we  cannot  give  them  bread  ! ' 

Little  children,  tears  are  strange  upon  your  infant  faces, 

God  meant  you  but  to  smile  within  your  mother's  soft  embraces. 

'Oh  !  we  know  not  what  is  smiling,  and  we  know  not  what  is 

dying  ; 

But  we're  hungry,  very  hungry,  and  we  cannot  stop  our  crying  ; 
And  some  of  us  grow  cold  and  white — we  know  not  what  it  means. 
But  as  they  lie  beside  us  we  tremble  in  our  dreams.' 
There's  a  gaunt  crowd  on  the  highway — are  ye  come  to  pray  to 

man, 
With  hollow  eyes  that  cannot  weep,  and  for  words  your  faces  wan  ? 

*  No ;  the  blood  is  dead  within  our  veins  ;  we  care  not  now  for  life  ; 
Let  us  die  hid  in  the  ditches,  far  from  children  and  from  wife  ; 
We  cannot  stay  to  listen  to  their  raving,  famished  cries — 

Bread  !  Bread  !  Bread  !— and  none  to  still  their  agonies. 

N 


r/8  BOOK  III 


We  left  an  infant  playing  with  her  dead  mother's  hand  : 

We  left  a  maiden  maddened  by  the  fever's  scorching  brand  : ' 

Better,   maiden,   thou   wert   strangled   in   thy   own   dark-twisted 

tresses  ! 
Better,  infant,  thou  wert  smothered  in  thy  mother's  first  caresses. 

'  We  are  fainting  in  our  misery,  but  God  will  hear  our  groan  ; 

Yea,  if  fellow-men  desert  us,  He  will  hearken  from  His  throne  ! 

Accursed  are  we  in  our  own  land,  yet  toil  we  still  and  toil  ; 

But  the  stranger  reaps  our  harvest—  the  alien  owns  our  soil. 

O  Christ,  how  have  we  sinned,  that  on  our  native  plains 

We   perish   houseless,  naked,  starved,  with  branded  brow,  like 

Cain's? 

Dying,  dying  wearily,  with  a  torture  sure  and  slow — 
Dying  as  a  dog  would  die,  by  the  wayside  as  we  go. 

'  One  by  one  they're  falling  round  us,  their  pale  faces  to  the  sky  ; 
We've  no  strength  left  to  dig  them  graves — there  let  them  lie. 
The  wild  bird,  when  he's  stricken,  is  mourned  by  the  others, 
But  we,  we  die  in  Christian  land— we  die  amid  our  brothers — 
In  the  land  which  God  has  given — like  a  wild  beast  in  his  cave, 
Without  a  tear,  a  prayer,  a  shroud,  a  coffin,  or  a  grave. 
Ha  !  but  think  ye  the  contortions  on  each  dead  face  ye  see, 
Shall  not  be  read  on  judgment-day  by  the  eyes  of  Deity? 

'  We  are  wretches,  famished,  scorned,  human  tools  to  build  your 

pride, 
But  God  will  yet  take  vengeance  for  the  souls  for  whom  Christ 

died. 

Now  is  your  hour  of  pleasure,  bask  ye  in  the  world's  caress  ; 
But  our  whitening  bones  against  ye  will  arise  as  witnesses, 
From  the  cabins   and   the  ditches,  in   their   charred,  uncoffined 

masses, 

For  the  ANGEL  OF  THE  TRUMPET  will  know  them  as  he  passes. 
A  ghastly,  spectral  army  before  great  God  we'll  stand 
And  arraign  ye  as  our  murderers,  O  spoilers  of  our  land  ! ' 

END   OF   POETS   OF    THE  NATION 


ANONYMOUS  179 


ANONYMOUS 

A  LAY  OF  THE  FAMINE 

HUSH  !  hear  you  how  the  night  wind  keens  around  the  craggy 

reek  ? 
Its  voice  peals  high  above  the  waves  that  thunder  in  the  creek. 

'  Aroon  !  aroon  !  arouse  thee,  and  hie  thee  o'er  the  moor  ! 

Ten  miles  away  there's  bread,  they  say,  to  feed  the  starving  poor. 

*  God  save  thee,  Eileen  baivn  astor,  and  guide  thy  naked  feet, 
And  keep  the  fainting  life  in  us  till  thou  come  back  with  meat. 

*  God  send  the  moon  to  show  thee  light  upon  the  way  so  drear, 
And  mind  thou  well  the  rocky  dell,  and  heed  the  rushy  mere.' 

She  kissed  her  father's  palsied  hand,  her  mother's  pallid  cheek, 
And  whirled  out  on  the  driving  storm  beyond  the  craggy  reek. 

All  night  she  tracks,  with  bleeding  feet,  the  rugged  mountain  way, 
And  townsfolks  meet  her  in  the  street  at  flushing  of  the  day. 

But  God  is  kinder  on  the  moor  than  man  is  in  the  town, 

And  Eileen  quails  before  the  stranger's  harsh  rebuke  and  frown. 

Night's  gloom  enwraps  the  hills  once  more  and  hides  a  slender 

form 
That  shudders  o'er  the  moor  again  before  the  driving  storm. 

No  bread  is  in  her  wallet  stored,  but  on  the  lonesome  heath 
She  lifts  her  empty  hands  to  God,  and  prays  for  speedy  death. 

Yet  struggles  onward,  faint  and  blind,  and  numb  to  hope  or  fear, 
Unmindful  of  the  rocky  dell  or  of  the  rushy  mere. 

But,  ululu  !  what  sight  is  this  ? — what  forms  come  by  the  reek  ? 
As  white  and  thin  as  evening  mist  upon  the  mountain's  peak. 

Mist-like  they  glide  across  the  heath— a  weird  and  ghostly  band  ; 
The  foremost  crosses  Eileen's  path,  and  grasps  her  by  the  hand. 

N  2 


i8o  BOOK  111 


1  Dear  daughter,  thou  hast  suffered  sore,  but  we  are  well  and  free  ; 
For  God  has  ta'en  our  life  from  us,  nor  wills  it  long  to  thee. 

*  So  hie  thee  to  our  cabin  lone,  and  dig  a  grave  so  deep, 
And  underneath  the  golden  gorse  our  corpses  lay  to  sleep — 

*  Else  they  will  come  and  smash  the  walls  upon  our  mould'ring 

bones, 

And  screaming  mountain  birds  will  tear  our  flesh  from  out  the 
stones. 

1  And,  daughter,  haste  to  do  thy  work,  so  thou  mayst  quickly  come, 
And  take  with  us  our  grateful  rest,  and  share  our  peaceful  home.' 


The  sun  behind  the  distant  hills  far-sinking  down  to  sleep  ; 
A  maiden  on  the  lonesome  moor,  digging  a  grave  so  deep  ; 

The  moon  above  the  craggy  reek,  silvering  moor  and  wave, 
And  the  pale  corpse  of  a  maiden  young  stretched  on  a  new-made 
grave. 


JAMES   McCARROLL 

BORN  at  Lanesborough,  County  Longford,  on  August  3,  1814, 
and  died  in  New  York  in  1891.  He  was  an  active  journalist, 
and  possessed  much  musical  knowledge,  and  was  also  a 
successful  inventor  and  patentee.  His  collected  poems  were 
published  in  1889  He  lived  many  years  in  America  and 
Canada. 

THE  IRISH  WOLF 

The  Times  once  used  this  term  to  designate  the  Irish  people. 

SEEK  music  in  the  wolfs  fierce  howl 

Or  pity  in  his  blood-shot  eye, 
When  hunger  drives  him  out  to  prowl 

Beneath  a  rayless  northern  sky  : 


JAMES  McCARROLL  181 


But  seek  not  that  we  should  forgive 
The  hand  that  strikes  us  to  the  heart, 

And  yet  in  mockery  bids  us  live 
To  count  our  stars  as  they  depart. 

We've  fed  the  tyrant  with  our  blood  ; 

Won  all  his  battles — built  his  throne — 
Established  him  on  land  and  flood, 

And  sought  his  glory  next  our  own. 

We  raised  him  from  his  low  estate  ; 

We  plucked  his  pagan  soul  from  hell, 
And  led  him  pure  to  heaven's  gate, 

Till  he,  for  gold,  like  Judas  fell. 

And  when  in  one  long,  soulless  night 
He  lay  unknown  to  wealth  or  fame, 

We  gave  him  empire — riches — light, 
And  taught  him  how  to  spell  his  name. 

But  now,  ungenerous  and  unjust, 

Forgetful  of  our  old  renown, 
He  bows  us  to  the  very  dust ; 

But  wears  our  jewels  in  his  crown. 


JOHN   SAVAGE 

JOHN  SAVAGE  was  born  in  Dublin  1828  and  died  in  New 
York  1888.  After  taking  some  part  in  the  '48  movement  he 
emigrated  to  America  and  adopted  the  profession  of  journalism 
there.  In  1879  he  received  the  honorary  degree  of  LL.D. 
from  St.  John's  College,  Fordham.  He  published  several 
volumes  of  poetry  :  LAYS  OF  THE  FATHERLAND,  1850  ;  SYBIL, 
1850;  FAITH  AND  FANCY,  [864;  POEMS,  1870.  The  following 
powerful  ballad  has  appeared  in  many  Irish  collections  of 
verse.  An  inferior  first  verse,  apparently  added  as  an  after- 
thought, has  been  here  omitted,  to  the  great  gain  of  the  poem 
in  dramatic  energy. 


182  BOOK  III 


SHANE'S  HEAD 

Scene.—  Before  Dublin  Castle.     Night.      A  clansman  of  Shane  O'Neill's 
discovers  his  Chief's  head  on  a  pole. 

Is   it   thus,  O  Shane  the  haughty  !    Shane  the  valiant  !  that  we 

meet- 
Have  my  eyes  been  lit  by  Heaven  but  to  guide  me  to  defeat  ? 
Have  /no  Chief,  or  you  no  clan,  to  give  us  both  defence, 
Or  must  I,  too,  be  statued  here  with  thy  cold  eloquence  ? 
Thy  ghastly  head  grins  scorn  upon  old  Dublin's  Castle  Tower  ; 
Thy  shaggy  hair  is  wind-tossed,  and  thy  brow  seems  rough  with 

power ; 

Thy  wrathful  lips  like  sentinels,  by  foulest  treachery  stung, 
Look  rage  upon  the  world  of  wrong,  but  chain  thy  fiery  tongue. 

That  tongue,  whose  Ulster  accent  woke  the  ghost  of  Columbkill ; 
Whose  warrior- words  fenced  round  with  spears  the  oaks  of  Derry 

Hill; 

Whose  reckless  tones  gave  life  and  death  to  vassals  and  to  knaves, 
And  hunted  hordes  of  Saxons  into  holy  Irish  graves. 
The  Scotch  marauders  whitened  when  his  war-cry  met  their  ears, 
And  the  death-bird,  like  a  vengeance,  poised  above  his   stormy 

cheers  ; 

Ay,  Shane,  across  the  thundering  sea,  out-chanting  it,  your  tongue 
Flung  wild  un- Saxon  war-whoopings  the  Saxon  Court  among. 

Just   think,  O    Shane  !   the  same   moon  shines  on    Liffey  as  on 

Foyle, 

And  lights  the  ruthless  knaves  on  both,  our  kincmen  to  despoil ; 
And  you  the  hope,  voice,  battle-axe,  the  shield  of  us  and  ours, 
A  murdered,  trunkless,  blinding  sight  above  these  Dublin  towers  ! 

Thy  face  is  paler  than  the  moon  ;  my  heart  is  paler  still — 

My  heart  ?     I  had  no  heart — 'twas  yours— 'twas  yours!  to  keep 

or  kill. 
And  you  kept  it  safe  for  Ireland,  Chief— your  life,  your  soul,  your 

pride  ; 
But  they  sought  it  in  thy  bosom,  Shane— with  proud  O'Neill  it 

died. 


JOHN  SAVAGE  183 


You  were  turbulent  and   haughty,  proud  and  keen   as   Spanish 

steel — 

But  who  had  right  of  these,  if  not  our  Ulster's  Chief,  O'Neill, 
Who  reared  aloft  the  '  Bloody  Hand '  until  it  paled  the  sun, 
And  shed  such  glory  on  Tyrone  as  chief  had  never  done  ? 

He  was  'turbulent'  with  traitors;  he  was  'haughty'  with  the 
foe; 

He  was  *  cruel,'  say  ye,  Saxons  !     Ay  !  he  dealt  ye  blow  for  blow  ! 

He  was  *  rough  '  and  *  wild ' — and  who's  not  wild  to  see  his  hearth- 
stone razed? 

He  was  'merciless  as  fire' — ah,  ye  kindled  him — he  blazed  ! 

He  was  'proud' — yes,  proud  of  birthright,  and  because  he  flung 
away 

Your  Saxon  stars  of  princedom,  as  the  rock  does  mocking  spray. 

He  was  wild,  insane  for  vengeance — ay  !  and  preached  it  till 
Tyrone 

Was  ruddy,  ready,  wild,  too,  with  'Red  hands'  to  clutch  their 
own. 

*  The  Scots  are  on  the  border,  Shane  ! '     Ye  Saints,  he  makes  no 

breath  ; 

I  remember  when  that  cry  would  wake  him  up  almost  from  death. 
Art  truly  dead  and  cold  ?     O  Chief  !  art  thou  to  Ulster  lost  ? 
'  Dost  hear — dost  hear  ?     By  Randolph  led,  the  troops  the  Foyle 

have  crossed  ! ' 

He's  truly  dead  !     He  must  be  dead  !  nor  is  his  ghost  about— 
And  yet  no  tomb  could  hold  his  spirit  tame  to  such  a  shout  : 
The  pale  face  droopeth  northward— ah  !  his  soul  must  loom  up 

there, 
By  old  Armagh,  or  Antrim's  glynns,  Lough  Foyle,  or  Bann  the 

Fair  ! 
I'll  speed  me  Ulster-wards — your  ghost  must  wander  there,  proud 

Shane, 
In  search  of  some  O'Neill,  through  whom  to  throb  its  hate  again. 


184  BOOK  III 


JOHN   WALSH 

THIS  poet  has  been  greatly  neglected  by  his  countrymen,  and 
he  appears  in  very  few  Irish  anthologies.  Yet  he  wrote  some 
admirably  simple  and  touching  pieces.  His  poems,  which 
mostly  appeared  in  The  Nation  and  the  Waterford  papers, 
have  never  been  collected.  He  was  a  schoolmaster,  like  Edward 
Walsh,  and  was  born  at  Cappoquin,  County  Waterford,  on 
April  i,  1835,  and  died  at  Cashel,  County  Tipperary,  in 
February  1881. 

To  MY  PROMISED  WIFE 

DEAR  maiden,  when  the  sun  is  down, 
And  darkness  creeps  above  the  town, 
The  woodlands'  green  is  changed  to  brown, 

And  the  mild  light 
Melting  beneath  the  tall  hills'  frown 

Steals  into  night, 

I  don  an  honest  coat  of  grey, 
And,  setting  stupid  care  at  bay, 
Across  the  fields  of  scented  hay 

I  stroll  along, 
Humming  some  quaint  old  Irish  lay 

Or  simple  song. 

And  when,  dear  maid,  I  come  to  you, 
A  laughing  eye  of  brightest  blue, 
And  flushing  cheek  of  crimson  hue, 

Tell  whom  I  greet, 
And  bounds  a  little  heart  as  true 

As  ever  beat. 

The  green  grass  on  the  river-side, 
The  full  moon  dancing  on  the  tide, 
The  half-blown  rose  that  tries  to  hide 

Her  blush  in  dew, 
Are  fair  ;  but  none,  my  promised  bride, 

As  fair  as  you. 


JOHN  WALSH  185 


And  though,  dear  love,  our  gathered  store 

Of  gold  is  small,  the  brighter  ore 

Of  love's  deep  mine  we'll  seek  the  more, 

And  truth  shall  be 
The  guard  beside  our  cottage-door, 

As  tor  mo  chroidhe  I 


DRIMIN  DONN  DiLis1 

OH  1  drimin  donn  dilis  \  the  landlord  has  come, 
Like  a  foul  blast  of  death  has  he  swept  o'er  our  home  ; 
He  has  withered  our  roof-tree — beneath  the  cold  sky, 
Poor,  houseless,  and  homeless,  to-night  must  we  lie. 

My  heart  it  is  cold  as  the  white  winter's  snow  ; 
My  brain  is  on  fire,  and  my  blood's  in  a  glow. 
Oh  !  drimin  donn  dilis,  'tis  hard  to  forgive 
When  a  robber  denies  us  the  right  we  should  live. 

With  my  health  and  my  strength,  with  hard  labour  and  toil, 
I  dried  the  wet  marsh  and  I  tilled  the  harsh  soil ; 
I  moiled  the  long  day  through,  from  morn  until  even, 
And  I  thought  in  my  heart  I'd  a  foretaste  of  heaven. 

The  summer  shone  round  us  above  and  below, 
The  beautiful  summer  that  makes  the  flowers  blow  : 
Oh  !  'tis  hard  to  forget  it,  and  think  I  must  bear 
That  strangers  shall  reap  the  reward  of  my  care. 

Your  limbs  they  were  plump  then — your  coat  it  was  silk, 

And  never  was  wanted  the  mether  of  milk  ; 

For  freely  it  came  in  the  calm  summer's  noon. 

While  you  munched  to  the  time  of  the  old  milking  croon. 

How  often  you  left  the  green  side  of  the  hill, 
To  stretch  in  the  shade  and  to  drink  of  the  rill  ! 
And  often  I  freed  you  before  the  grey  dawn 
From  your  snug  little  pen  at  the  edge  of  the  bawn. 


1  '  Dear  brown  cow. ' 


1 86  BOOK  III 


But  they  racked  and  they  ground  me  with  tax  and  with  rent, 
Till  my  heart  it  was  sore  and  my  life-blood  was  spent : 
To-day  they  have  finished,  and  on  the  wide  world 
With  the  mocking  of  fiends  from  my  home  I  was  hurled. 

I  knelt  down  three  times  for  to  utter  a  prayer, 
But  my  heart  it  was  seared,  and  the  words  were  not  there  ; 
Oh  !  wild  were  the  thoughts  through  my  dizzy  head  came, 
Like  the  rushing  of  wind  through  a  forest  of  flame. 

I  bid  you,  old  comrade,  a  long  last  farewell ; 

For  the  gaunt  hand  of  famine  has  clutched  us  too  well  ; 

It  severed  the  master  and  you,  my  good  cow, 

With  a  blight  on  his  life  and  a  brand  on  his  brow. 


D.   MAcALEESE 

BORN  in  1833  at  Randalstown,  County  Antrim,  Mr.  MacAleese 
worked  for  some  time  at  his  father's  trade — that  of  a  shoe- 
maker— but  his  taste  for  letters  led  him  into  journalism, 
where  he  began  as  printer's  reader  on  a  Belfast  paper.  He  is 
now  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Peoples  Advocate,  Monaghan, 
and  was  returned  to  Parliament  for  North  Monaghan  in  1895. 

A  MEMORY 

ADOWN  the  leafy  lane  we  two, 

One  brown  October  eve,  together  sped  ; 

The  clustered  nuts  were  hanging  overhead, 
And  ever  and  anon,  the  deep  woods  through, 
The  grey  owl  piped  his  weird  '  Tu-whut  !  tu-whoo  ! ' 

Adown  the  leafty  lane  we  two 

Strolled  on  and  on,  till  sank  the  setting  sun 
In  sapphire  beauty  round  Tyleden  dun, 

And  shadows  long  and  longer  round  us  grew  ; 

Had  earth  a  pair  so  happy  as  we  two  ? 


D.  MAcALEESE  187 


Adown  the  leafy  lane  we  two 

Loitered  and  laughed,  and  laughed  and  loitered  more, 
And  talked  of  '  gentle  folk  '  and  fairy  lore. 
Till,  one  by  one,  from  out  the  vaulted  blue, 
The  diamond  stars  came  softly  forth  to  view. 

Adown  the  leafy  lane  we  two 

Saw  figures  flitting  'mong  the  quicken  trees, 
Tall  Finian  forms,  holding  high  revelries, 
And  dogs,  like  Bran  in  sinew  and  in  thew, 
Chased  shadowy  deer  the  vista'd  woodlands  through. 

Adown  the  leafy  lane  we  two 

Heard  fairy  pipes  play  fairy  music  sweet, 
And  now  and  then  the  tramp  of  fairy  feet, 
And  screams  of  laughter  'mong  the  fairy  crew — 
The  elves  and  fays  that  haunt  old  Corradhu. 

Adown  the  leafy  lane  no  more 

We  two  go  loitering  in  the  Autumn  eves, 
When  merry  reapers  tie  the  golden  sheaves, 

And  kine  come  lowing  to  the  cottage  door, 

Where  ready  pails  await  the  milky  store. 

Astoireen,  no,  far,  far  away, 

Secluded  lies  that  golden-memoried  lane, 
Where  ceaseless  flows  the  bright  and  sparkling  Main 
Through  scenes  of  beauty  to  the  storied  Neagh — 
Here  by  the  Hudson's  banks  we  two  grow  grey. 


JOSEPH   SHERIDAN   LE   FANU 

LE  FANU  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  Irish 
writers.  In  UNCLE  SILAS,  in  his  wonderful  tales  of  the  super- 
natural, and  in  a  short  and  less  known  but  most  masterly  story, 
THE  ROOM  IN  THE  DRAGON  VOLANT,  he  touched  the  springs  of 
terror  and  suspense  as  perhaps  no  other  writer  of  fiction  in  the 


1 88  BOOK  III 

language  has  been  able  to  do.  His  fine  scholarship,  poetic 
sense,  and  strong  yet  delicate  handling  of  language  and  of 
incident  give  these  tales  a  place  quite  apart  among  works  of 
sensational  fiction.  But  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  all  his 
novels  is  THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  CHURCHYARD— a  wonderful 
mixture  of  sensationalism,  humour,  tragedy,  and  romance.  In 
poetry  his  'Shemus  O'Brien,'  a  capital  piece  written  for 
recitation,  is  a  well-known  favourite,  and  has  been  made  the 
basis  of  a  fine  Irish  opera  by  C.  Villiers  Stanford.  It  is  note- 
worthy, by  the  way,  that  Le  Fanu,  the  son  of  a  Dean  of  the 
Established  Church,  and  proprietor  and  editor  of  a  Tory  news- 
paper, became  a  rebel  whenever  he  wrote  verse. 

The  piece  from  '  The  Legend  of  the  Glaive '  here  given 
shows  the  weird  and  romantic  touch  which  Le  Fanu  had  at 
command,  and  'The  Address  to  the  Bottle'  has  much  of 
the  almost  savage  energy  which  he  showed  more  in  certain 
scenes  of  THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  CHURCHYARD  than  anywhere 
else. 

From  Mr.  Alfred  Perceval  Graves's  introduction  to  Le 
Fanu's  poems  we  may  take  the  following  picture  of  his 
habits  and  character  in  later  years  : 

'  Those  who  possessed  the  rare  privilege  of  Le  Fanu's 
friendship,  and  only  they,  can  form  any  idea  of  the  true 
character  of  the  man  ;  for  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  to  whom 
he  was  most  deeply  devoted,  he  quite  forsook  general  society, 
in  which  his  fine  features,  distinguished  bearing,  and  charm  of 
conversation  marked  him  out  as  the  beau-ideal  of  an  Irish  wit 
and  scholar  of  the  old  school. 

*  From  this  society  he  vanished  so  entirely  that  Dublin, 
always  ready  with  a  nickname,  dubbed  him  'The  Invisible 
Prince ' ;  and,  indeed,  he  was  for  long  almost  invisible,  except 
to  his  family  and  most  familiar  friends,  unless  at  odd  hours  of 
the  evening,  when  he  might  occasionally  be  seen  stealing, 
like  the  ghost  of  his  former  self,  between  his  newspaper 
office  and  his  home  in  Merrion  Square.  Sometimes  too  he 
was  to  be  encountered  in  an  old,  out-of-the-way  bookshop, 
poring  over  some  rare  black-letter  Astrology  or  Demonology.' 


JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU  189 

Le  Fanu  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1814,  and  graduated  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  in  1837.  About  1838  he  purchased  The  Warder ;  a  Conservative 
journal,  and  afterwards  became  editor  and  owner  of  The  Dublin  Evening 
Mail  and  of  The  Dublin  University  Magazine.  Most  of  his  poetic  and 
prose  work  appeared  first  in  the  last-named  periodical.  His  POEMS 
appeared  for  the  first  time  in  a  collected  edition,  edited  by  Mr.  Alfred 
Perceval  Graves,  in  1896.  He  died  in  1873. 

FlONULA 

HffiU  to  this  hour  she  is  sometimes  seen  by  night  in  Munster 
From  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GLAIVE 

BY  the  foot  of  old  Keeper,  beside  the  bohreen, 

In  the  deep  blue  of  night  the  thatched  cabin  is  seen  ; 

Neath  the  furze-covered  ledge,  by  the  wild  mountain  brook, 

Where  the  birch  and  the  ash  dimly  shelter  the  nook, 

And  many's  the  clear  star  that  trembles  on  high 

O'er  the  thatch  and  the  wild  ash  that  melt  in  the  sky. 

'  Shamus  Oge '  and  old  Teig  are  come  home  from  the  fair, 

And  the  car  stands  up  black  with  its  shafts  in  the  air, 

A  warbling  of  laughter  hums  over  the  floor, 

And  fragrant's  the  flush  of  the  turf  through  the  door. 

Round  the  glow  the  old  folk  and  the  colleens  and  boys 

Wile  the  hour  with  their  stories,  jokes,  laughter,  and  noise  ; 

Dogs  stretched  on  the  hearth  with  their  chins  on  their  feet  lie, 

To  her  own  purring  music  the  cat  dozes  sweetly  ; 

Pretty  smiles  answer,  coyly,  while  soft  spins  the  wheel, 

The  bold  lover's  glances  or  whispered  appeal. 

Stealing  in,  like  the  leather-wings  under  the  thatch, 

A  hand  through  the  dark  softly  leans  on  the  latch, 

An  oval  face  peeps  through  the  clear  deep  of  night, 

From  her  jewels  faint  tremble  blue  splinters  of  light. 

There's  a  stranger  among  us,  a  chill  in  the  air, 

And  an  awful  face  silently  framed  over  there  ; 

The  green  light  of  horror  glares  cold  from  each  eye, 

And  laughter  breaks  shivering  into  a  cry. 

A  flush  from  the  fire  hovers  soft  to  the  door, 

In  the  dull  void  the  pale  lady  glimmers  no  more. 

The  cowering  dogs  howl,  slowly  growls  the  white  cat, 

And  the  whisper  outshivers,  '  God  bless  us  !  what's  that  ? ' 


190  BOOK  III 


The  sweet  summer  moon  o'er  Aherlow  dreams, 

And  the  Galtees,  gigantic,  loom  cold  in  her  beams  ; 

From  the  wide  flood  of  purple  the  pale  peaks  uprise, 

Slowly  gliding  like  sails  'gainst  the  stars  of  the  skies  ; 

Soft  moonlight  is  drifted  on  mountain  and  wood, 

Airy  voices  sing  faint  to  the  drone  of  the  flood, 

As  the  traveller  benighted  flies  onward  in  fear, 

And  the  clink  of  his  footsteps  falls  shrill  on  his  ear. 

There's  a  hush  in  the  bushes,  a  chill  in  the  air, 

While  a  breath  steals  beside  him  and  whispers,  '  Beware ! ' 

While  aslant  by  the  oak,  down  the  hollow  ravine, 

Like  a  flying  bird's  shadow  smooth-gliding,  is  seen 

Fionula  the  Cruel,  the  brightest,  the  worst, 

With  a  terrible  beauty  the  vision  accurst, 

Gold-filleted,  sandalled,  of  times  dead  and  gone — 

Far-looking,  and  harking,  pursuing,  goes  on  : 

Her  white  hand  from  her  ear  lifts  her  shadowy  hair, 

From  the  lamp  of  her  eye  floats  the  sheen  of  despair  ; 

Her  cold  lips  are  apart,  and  her  teeth  in  her  smile 

Glimmer  death  on  her  face  with  a  horrible  wile. 

Three  throbs  at  his  heart — not  a  breath  at  his  lip, 

As  the  figure  skims  by  like  the  swoop  of  a  ship ; 

The  breeze  dies  and  drops  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

And  the  pulse  of  the  rivulet  ceases  to  sing  ; 

And  the  stars  and  the  moon  dilate  o'er  his  head, 

As  they  smile  out  an  icy  salute  to  the  dead. 

The  traveller — alone— signs  the  cross  on  his  breast, 
Gasps  a  prayer  to  the  saints  for  her  weary  soul's  rest ; 
His  'gospel'  close  pressed  to  the  beat  of  his  heart, 
And  fears  still  to  linger,  yet  dreads  to  depart. 
By  the  village  fire  crouched,  his  the  story  that  night, 
While  his  listeners  around  him  draw  pale  with  affright  ; 
Till  it's  over  the  country — 'God  bless  us,  again  !' 
How  he  met  Fionula  in  Aherlow  Glen. 


JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU  191 

ABHRAIN  AN  BHUIDEIL 

ADDRESS  OF  A   DRUNKARD   TO   A   BOTTLE  OF  WHISKY 

FROM  what  dripping  cell,  through  what  fairy  glen, 
Where  'mid  old  rocks  and  ruins  the  fox  makes  his  den, 
Over  what  lonesome  mountain, 

Acuishle  mo  chroidhe  ! 
Where  gauger  never  has  trod, 
Sweet  as  the  flowery  sod, 
Wild  as  the  breath 
Of  the  breeze  on  the  heath, 

And  sparkling  all  o'er  like  the  moon-lighted  fountain, 
Are  you  come  to  me — 
Sorrowful  me  ? 

Dancing — inspiring — 
My  wild  blood  firm'  ; 
Oh  !  terrible  glory — 

Oh  !  beautiful  siren — 
Come,  tell  the  old  story — 

Come,  light  up  my  fancy,  and  open  my  heart. 
Oh,  beautiful  ruin — 
My  life — my  undoin' — 
Soft  and  fierce  as  a  pantheress, 

Dream  of  my  longing,  and  wreck  of  soul, 
I  never  knew  love  till  I  loved  you,  enchanthress  ! 

At  first,  when  I  knew  you,  'twas  only  flirtation, 
The  touch  of  a  lip  and  the  flash  of  an  eye ; 
But  'tis  different  now — 'tis  desperation  ! 
I  worship  before  you, 
I  curse  and  adore  you, 
And  without  you  I'd  die. 
Wirrasthrue!  ' 
I  wish  'twas  again 
The  happy  time  when 


ir  1^*5  :  '  O  Mary,  'tis  pity.' 


192  BOOK  III 


I  cared  little  about  you, 

Could  do  well  without  you, 

But  would  just  laugh  and  view  you  ; 

'Tis  little  I  knew  you  ! 

Oh  !  terrible  darling, 
How  have  you  sought  me, 
Enchanted,  and  caught  me  ? 
See,  now,  where  you've  brought  me — 
To  sleep  by  the  roadside,  and  dress  out  in  rags. 
Think  how  you  found  me  ; 
Dreams  come  around  me — 

The  dew  of  my  childhood  and  life's  morning  beam  ; 
Now  I  sleep  by  the  roadside,  a  wretch  all  in  rags. 
My  heart  that  sang  merrily  when  I  was  young 

Swells  up  like  a  billow  and  bursts  in  despair ; 
And  the  wreck  of  my  hopes  on  sweet  memory  flung> 
And  cries  on  the  air, 

Are  all  that  is  left  of  the  dream. 

Wirrasthrue  ! 

My  father  and  mother, 

The  priest,  and  my  brother — 

Not  a  one  has  a  good  word  for  you. 
But  I  can't  part  you,  darling ;  their  preaching's  all  vain  ; 

You'll  burn  in  my  heart  till  these  thin  pulses  stop  ; 
And  the  wild  cup  of  life  in  your  fragrance  I'll  drain — 

To  the  last  brilliant  drop. 

Then  oblivion  will  cover 

The  shame  that  is  over, 
The  brain  that  was  mad,  and  the  heart  that  was  sore  ; 

Then,  beautiful  witch, 

I'll  be  found  —  in  a  ditch, 
With  your  kiss  on  my  cold  lips,  and  never  rise  more. 


JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU  193 

SHEMUS  O'BRIEN  : 
A  TALE  OF  'NINETY-EIGHT,  AS  RELATED  BY  AN  IRISH  PEASANT 

PART    I 

JlST  after  the  war,  in  the  year  'Ninety-Eight, 
As  soon  as  the  Boys  wor  all  scattered  and  bate, 
'Twas  the  custom,  whenever  a  peasant  was  got, 
To  hang  him  by  trial — barrin'  such  as  was  shot. 

There  was  trial  by  jury  goin'  on  by  dayfight, 
And  the  martial  law  hangin'  the  laving  s  by  night : 
It's  them  was  hard  times  for  an  honest  gossoon  ; 
If  he  missed  in  the  judges,  he'd  meet  a  Dragoon  / 
An'  whether  the  sojers  or  judges  gave  sentence, 
The  devil  a  much  time  they  allowed  for  repentance ; 
An'  the  many  a  fine  Boy  was  then  on  his  keepin', 
With  small  share  of  restin',  or  sittin',  or  sleepin'  ! 
An'  because  they  loved  Erinn,  and  scorned  to  sell  it, 
A  prey  for  the  bloodhound,  a  mark  for  the  bullet — 
Unsheltered  by  night,  and  unrested  by  day, 
With  the  heath  for  their  barrack,  revenge  for  their  pay. 

An'  the  bravest  an'  honestest  Boy  of  thim  all 

Was  Shemus  O'Brien,  from  the  town  of  Glingall ; 

His  limbs  wor  well  set,  an'  his  body  was  light, 

An'  the  keen-fanged  hound  had  not  teeth  half  as  white. 

But  his  face  was  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead, 

An'  his  cheek  never  warmed  with  the  blush  of  the  red  ; 

An',  for  all  that,  he  wasn't  an  ugly  young  Boy — 

For  the  devil  himself  couldn't  blaze  with  his  eye — 

So  droll  an'  so  wicked,  so  dark  an'  so  bright, 

Like  a  fire-flash  that  crosses  the  depth  of  the  night. 

An'  h?  was  the  best  mower  that  ever  has  been, 

An'  the  elegantest  hurler  that  ever  was  seen  : 

In  fencin'  he  gave  Patrick  Mooney  a  cut, 

An'  in  jumpin'  he  bate  Tom  Molony  a  foot  ; 

For  lightness  of  foot  there  was  not  his  peer, 

For,  by  Heavens  !  he'd  almost  outrun  the  red  deer ; 

O 


194  BOOK  III 


An'  his  dancin'  was  such  that  the  men  used  to  stare, 
And  the  women  turn  crazy,  he  did  it  so  quare  ; 
An'  sure  the  whole  world  l  gave  in  to  him  there  ! 

An'  it's  he  was  the  Boy  that  was  hard  to  be  caught  ; 
An'  it's  often  he  ran,  an'  it's  often  he  fought  ; 
An'  it's  many  the  one  can  remember  quite  well 
The  quare  things  he  did  ;  and  it's  oft  I  heerd  tell 
How  he  frightened  the  magistrates  in  Cahirbally, 
An'  escaped  through  the  sojers  in  Aherlow  valley, 
An'  leathered  the  yeomen,  himself  agen  four, 
An'  stretched  the  four  strongest  on  ould  Galteemore. 

But  the  fox  must  sleep  sometimes,  the  wild  deer  must  rest, 

And  treachery  prey  on  the  blood  of  the  best  ; 

An'  many  an  action  of  power  an'  of  pride, 

An'  many  a  night  on  the  mountain's  bleak  side, 

And  a  thousand  great  dangers  an'  toils  overpast, 

In  darkness  of  night  he  was  taken  at  last. 

Now,  Shemus,  look  back  on  the  beautiful  moon, 
For  the  door  of  the  prison  must  close  on  you  soon  ; 
An'  take  your  last  look  at  her  dim  misty  light, 
That  falls  on  the  mountain  an'  valley  to-night. 
One  look  at  the  village,  one  look  at  the  flood, 
An'  one  at  the  sheltering  far-distant  wood ; 
Farewell  to  the  forest,  farewell  to  the  hill, 
An'  farewell  to  the  friends  that  will  think  of  you  still. 
Farewell  to  the  patthern,  the  hurlin'  an'  wake, 
An'  farewell  to  the  girl  that  would  die  for  your  sake  ! 

An'  twelve  sojers  brought  him  to  Maryborough  jail, 

An'  with  irons  secured  him,  refusin'  all  bail. 

The  fleet  limbs  wor  chained,  and  the  sthrong  hands  wor 

bound, 
An'  he  lay  down  his  length  on  the  cold  prison  ground ; 

1  In  Gaelic  the  consonant  r  is  given  its  full  value  before  another  con- 
sonant, producing  the  effect  of  a  dissyllable,  e.g.  tarbh  pronounced 
'  thorruv  '  (a  bull).  This  practice,  like  many  other  Gaelic  locutions,  has  been 
carried  into  Englis  hence  'worruld'  for  'world' ;  'firrum'  for  'firm,'  &c. 


JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU  195 


And  the  dhrames  of  his  childhood  kem  over  him  there, 

As  gentle  and  soft  as  the  sweet  summer  air ; 

An'  happy  remimbrances  crowdin'  in  ever, 

As  fast  the  foam-flakes  dhrift  down  on  the  river, 

Bringin'  fresh  to  his  heart  merry  days  long  gone  by, 

Till  the  tears  gathered  heavy  an'  thick  in  his  eye. 

But  the  tears  didn't  fall ;  for  the  pride  iv  his  heart 
Wouldn't  suffer  one  dhrop  down  his  pale  cheek  to  start; 
An'  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  dark  prison  cave, 
An'  he  swore  with  a  fierceness  that  misery  gave, 
By  the  hopes  iv  the  good  an'  the  cause  iv  the  brave, 
That,  when  he  was  mouldering  in  the  cowld  grave, 
His  inimies  never  should  have  it  to  boast 
His  scorn  iv  their  vengeance  one  moment  was  lost  : 
His  bosom  might  bleed,  but  his  cheek  should  be  dhry  ; 
For  undaunted  he  lived,  and  undaunted  he'd  die. 


Well,  as  soon  as  a  few  weeks  were  over  an'  gone, 

The  terrible  day  of  the  trial  came  on  ; 

There  was  such  a  crowd,  there  was  scarce  room  to  stand, 

An'  sojers  on  guard,  an'  Dragoons  sword  in  hand  ; 

An'  the  court-house  so  full  that  the  people  were  bothered, 

An'  attornies  and  criers  on  the  point  o'  bein'  smothered ; 

An'  counsellors  almost  gev'  over  for  dead, 

An'  the  jury  sittin'  up  in  the  box  overhead  ; 

An'  the  judge  settled  out  so  determined  an'  big, 

An'  the  gown  on  his  back,  an'  an  elegant  wig  ; 

An'  silence  was  call'd,  an'  the  minute  'twas  said, 

The  court  was  as  still  as  the  heart  of  the  dead. 

An'  they  heard  but  the  opening  of  one  prison-lock, 

An'  Shemus  O'Brien  kem  into  the  dock  ; 

For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eyes  round  on  the  throng, 

An'  then  looked  on  the  bars,  so  firm  and  so  strong. 

An'  he  saw  that  he  had  not  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 

A  chance  to  escape,  nor  a  word  to  defend  ; 

An'  he  folded  his  arms,  as  he  stood  there  alone, 

As  calm  an'  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone. 

02 


196  BOOK  TIT 


An'  they  read  a  big  writin',  a  yard  long  at  laste, 

An'  Shemus  didn't  see  it,  nor  mind  it  a  taste  ; 

An',  the  judge  took  a  big  pinch  of  snuff,  an'  he  says  : 

'  Are  you  guilty  or  not,  Jim  O'Brien,  if  you  plaise  ?' 

An'  all  held  their  breath  in  silence  of  dread, 

An'  Shemus  O'Brien  made  answer  an'  said  : 

4  My  lord,  if  you  ask  me  if  in  my  lifetime 

I  thought  any  treason,  or  did  any  crime, 

That  should  call  to  my  cheek,  as  I  stand  alone  here, 

The  hot  blush  of  shame  or  the  coldness  of  fear, 

Though  I  stood  by  the  grave  to  receive  my  death-blow, 

Before  God  an'  the  world  I  would  answer  you  No  ! 

But  if  you  would  ask  me,  as  I  think  it  like, 

If  in  the  Rebellion  I  carried  a  pike, 

An'  fought  for  Ould  Ireland,  from  the  first  to  the  close, 

An'  shed  the  heart's  blood  of  her  bitterest  foes— 

I  answer  you  YES  ;  an'  I  tell  you  again, 

Though  I  stand  here  to  perish,  it's  my  glory  that  then 

In  her  cause  I  was  willin'  my  veins  should  run  dry, 

An'  that  now  for  her  sake  I  am  ready  to  die.' 

Then  the  silence  was  great,  and  the  jury  smiled  bright  ; 

An'  the  judge  wasn't  sorry  the  job  was  made  light ; 

By  my  soul,  it's  himself  was  the  crabbed  ould  chap  ! 

In  a  twinkling  he  pulled  on  his  ugly  black  cap. 

Then  Shemus's  mother,  in  the  crowd  standin'  by, 

Called  out  to  the  judge  with  a  pitiful  cry  : 

*  Oh  !  judge,  darlin',  don't — oh  !  don't  say  the  word  ! 

The  crathur  is  young — have  mercy,  my  lord  ! 

You  don't  know  him,  my  lord  ;  oh  !  don't  give  him  to  ruin  ! 

He  was  foolish — he  didn't  know  what  he  was  doin'  ; 

He's  the  kindliest  crathur,  the  tinderest-hearted — 

Don't  part  us  for  ever,  we  that's  so  long  parted  ! 

Judge  mavourneen,  forgive  him — forgive  him,  my  lord  ! 

An'  God  will  forgive  you— oh  !  don't  say  the  word  ! ' 

That  was  the  first  minute  O'Brien  was  shaken, 
When  he  saw  that  he  was  not  quite  forgot  or  forsaken  ! 
An'  down  his  pale  cheek,  at  the  word  of  his  mother, 
The  big  tears  were  running,  one  after  the  other  ; 


•    JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU  197 

An'  two  or  three  times  he  endeavoured  to  spake, 

But  the  strong  manly  voice  used  to  falter  and  break. 

But  at  last,  by  the  strength  of  his  high-mounting  pride, 

He  conquered  an'  master'd  his  grief's  swelling  tide  ; 

An'  says  he,  *  Mother,  don't — don't  break  your  poor  heart  ! 

Sure,  sooner  or  later,  the  dearest  must  part. 

An'  God  knows  it's  better  than  wand'ring  in  fear 

On  the  bleak  trackless  mountain  among  the  wild  deer, 

To  be  in  the  grave,  where  the  heart,  head,  an'  breast, 

From  labour  and  sorrow  for  ever  shall  rest. 

Then,  mother,  my  darlin',  don't  cry  any  more — 

Don't  make  me  seem  broken  in  this  my  last  hour  ; 

For  I  wish,  when  my  heart's  lyin'  under  the  raven, 

No  true  man  can  say  that  I  died  like  a  craven.' 

Then  towards  the  judge  Shemus  bent  down  his  head, 
An'  that  minute  the  solemn  death-sentence  was  said. 


PART   III 

The  mornin'  was  bright,  an'  the  mists  rose  on  high, 

An'  the  lark  whistled  merrily  in  the  clear  sky ; 

But  why  are  the  men  standing  idle  so  late? 

An'  why  do  the  crowd  gather  fast  in  the  street  ? 

What  come  chey  to  talk  of?  What  come  they  to  see? 

An'  why  does  the  long  rope  hang  from  the  cross-tree  ? 

Oh  !  Shemus  O'Brien,  pray  fervent  an'  fast — 

May  the  saints  take  your  soul,  for  this  day  is  your  last. 

Pray  fast,  an'  pray  strong,  for  the  moment  is  nigh, 

When,  strong,  proud,  an'  great  as  you  are,  you  must  die  ! — 

At  last  they  drew  open  the  big  prison  gate, 

An'  out  came  the  Sheriffs  an'  sojers  in  state. 

An'  a  cart  in  the  middle,  and  Shemus  was  in  it — 

Not  paler,  but  prouder  than  ever,  that  minit ; 

An'  as  soon  as  the  people  saw  Shemus  O'Brien, 

Wid  prayin'  and  blessin',  an  all  the  girls  cryin', 

A  wild  wailin'  sound  kem  on  all  by  degrees, 

Like  the  sound  of  the  lonesome  wind  bio  win'  through  trees. 


198  BOOK  III 


On,  on  to  the  gallows  the  Sheriffs  are  gone, 

An'  the  car  an'  the  sojers  go  steadily  on, 

An'  at  every  side  swellin'  around  of  the  cart, 

A  wild  sorrowful  sound  that  would  open  your  heart. 

Now  under  the  gallows  the  cart  takes  its  stand, 

An'  the  hangman  gets  up  with  a  rope  in  his  hand, 

An'  the  priest,  havin'  blest  him,  gets  down  on  the  ground, 

An'  Shemus  O'Brien  throws  one  look  around. 

Then  the  hangman  drew  near,  and  the  people  grew  still, 

Young  faces  turn  sickly,  an'  warm  hearts  turn  chill ; 

An'  the  rope  bein'  ready,  his  neck  was  made  bare, 

For  the  gripe  of  the  life-strangling  cords  to  prepare  ; 

An'  the  good  priest  has  left  him,  havin'  said  his  last  prayer. 

But  the  good  priest  did  more — for  his  hands  he  unbound  ! 
An'  with  one  daring  spring  Jim  has  leaped  on  the  ground  ! 

Bang  !  bang  !  go  the  carbines,  an'  clash  go  the  sabres  ; 
He's  not  down  !  he's  alive  !    Now  attend  to  him,  neighbours  ! 

By  one  shout  from  the  people  the  heavens  are  shaken — 

One  shout  that  the  dead  of  the  world  might  awaken. 

Your  swords  they  may  glitter,  your  carbines  go  bang, 

But  if  you  want  hanging,  'tis  yourselves  you  must  hang  ! 

To-night  he'll  be  sleepin'  in  Aherlow  Glen, 

An'  the  divil's  in  the  dice  if  you  catch  him  agin. 

The  sojers  run  this  way,  the  Sheriffs  run  that, 

An'  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Sunday  hat ; 

An'  the  Sheriffs  were,  both  of  them,  punished  sevarely, 

An'  fined  like  the  divil,  because  Jim  done  them  fairly  ! 


CHARLES  J.   KICKHAM  199 


CHARLES   J.    KICKHAM 

KICKHAM  was  above  all  things  *  kindly  Irish  of  the  Irish, 
neither  Saxon  nor  Italian' — a  patriot  first  and  a  poet  after. 
Still,  a  true  poet  he  was  whether  in  verse  or  in  prose,  with  a 
note  both  simple  and  strong,  if  not  deep  or  varied ;  a  keen 
lover  and  observer  of  Nature,  in  deep  and  tender  sympathy 
with  the  men  and  women  about  him,  and  with  a  knowledge  of 
the  manners,  customs,  feelings  and  moods  of  the  Irish  peasant 
greater,  I  think,  than  was  possessed  by  any  other  man  I 
ever  met.  If  this  sympathy  and  knowledge  were  shown  in 
larger  measure  in  his  novels  than  in  his  poems,  it  was  that  in 
the  former  he  had  ampler  room  for  their  display,  for,  whether 
by  chance  or  by  design,  he  wrote  much  in  prose  and  but  little 
in  verse.  But  in  prose  or  in  verse  he  showed  clearly  how  well 
he  knew  and  loved  his  country.  He  may  be  reckoned  as  the 
chief  of  the  Fenian  poets— a  smaller  and  weaker  band  of 
litterateurs  than  the  poets  of  The  Nation,  but  one  which 
accomplished  something  of  considerable  note  in  the  domain 
of  practical  affairs.  For  some  twenty  years  before  we  went 
to  prison  in  1865,  while  in  prison,  and  after  we  left  it,  I  knew 
Kickham  as  probably  no  other  man  did.  The  better  I  knew 
him,  the  more  highly  I  valued  his  character  and  his  intellect. 
Maimed  and  disfigured  by  an  accident  which  would  have 
crushed  all  spirit  out  of  most  men,  he  worked  to  his  last  day 
with  an  unselfish  devotion  that  no  man  has  ever  surpassed. 
And,  uncompromising  rebel  though  he  was  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end,  the  spirit  in  which  he  worked  was  one  of  love, 
not  of  hate.  A  man  endowed  with  his  gifts  of  observation, 
humour,  and  romantic  feeling -and  with  his  humane, 
sincere  and  lovable  character,  might  in  happier  circumstances 
have  rivalled  Carleton  as  a  delineator  of  Irish  peasant  life. 
But  his  steps  were  led  in  other  and  more  perilous  paths,  and 
the  writings  he  has  left  are  but  evidence  of  what  he  might  have 
accomplished  if  his  whole  strength  had  been  turned  in  the 
direction  of  literature.  He  found  other  and  what  he  deemed 


200  BOOK  III 


more  pressing  work  to  do  for  Ireland  ;  and  it  is  certainly  not 
for  me  to  quarrel  with  his  choice. 

JOHN  O'LEARY 

Charles  Joseph  Kickham  was  born  at  Mullinahone,  County  Tipperary, 
in  1828.  He  began  at  about  twenty  years  of  age  to  write  verse  and  prose 
for  various  periodicals.  His  stories  of  Irish  life — SALLY  KAVANAGH  ; 
FOR  THE  OLD  LAND  ;  and  KNOCKNAGOW — all  appeared  first  in  serial  form. 
In  1863  he  joined  the  staff  of  The  Irish  People,  the  organ  of  the  Fenian 
movement,  edited  by  his  friend  and  colleague  Mr.  John  O'Leary,  and  was 
arrested  with  him  in  that  year,  and  sentenced  to  fourteen  years'  penal  servi- 
tude— O'Leary  receiving  twenty.  His  eyesight  and  hearing  had  been 
seriously  injured  by  a  gunpowder  accident  in  youth,  and  though  during  his 
imprisonment  he  almost  lost  the  use  of  both  senses  he  remained  after  his 
release,  as  he  had  been  formerly,  one  of  the  guiding  spirits  of  the  Fenian 
movement.  He  died  at  Blackrock,  near  Dublin,  in  1882,  and  was  buried  at 
Mullinahone.  His  poems  have  never  been  collected.  A  fine  statue  by 
Mr.  John  Hughes  has  recently  been  erected  to  his  memory  in  the  town  of 
Tipperary. 

RORY   OF  THE   HlLLS 

1  THAT  rake  up  near  the  rafters, 

Why  leave  it  there  so  long  ? 
The  handle,  of  the  best  of  ash, 

Is  smooth  and  straight  and  strong; 
And,  mother,  will  you  tell  me, 

Why  did  my  father  frown 
When  to  make  the  hay,  in  summer-time, 

I  climbed  to  take  it  down  ? J 
She  looked  into  her  husband's  eyes, 

While  her  own  with  light  did  fill, 
'  You'll  shortly  know  the  reason>  boy  ! ' 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

The  midnight  moon  is  lighting  up 

The  slopes  of  Sliav-na-man, — 
Whose  foot  affrights  the  startled  hares 

So  long  before  the  dawn  ? 
He  stopped  just  where  the  Anner's  stream 

Winds  up  the  woods  anear, 
Then  whistled  low  and  looked  around 

To  see  the  coast  was  clear. 


CHARLES  J.   KICKHAM  201 


The  sheeling  door  flew  open — 

In  he  stepped  with  right  good-will — 

1  God  save  all  here  and  bless  your  WORK,' 
SaidRoryofthe  Hill. 

Right  hearty  was  the  welcome 

That  greeted  him,  I  ween, 
For  years  gone  by  he  fully  proved 

How  well  he  loved  the  Green  ; 
And  there  was  one  amongst  them 

Who  grasped  him  by  the  hand  — 
One  who  through  all  that  weary  time 

Roamed  on  a  foreign  strand  ; 
He  brought  them  news  from  gallant  friends 

That  made  their  heart-strings  thrill — 
'  My  sowl ' !  I  never  doubted  them  ! ' 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

They  sat  around  the  humble  board 

Till  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  yet  not  song  nor  shout  I  heard — 

No  revellers  were  they  : 
Some  brows  flushed  red  with  gladness, 

While  some  were  grimly  pale  ; 
But  pale  or  red,  from  out  those  eyes 

Flashed  souls  that  never  quail  ! 
*  And  sing  us  now  about  the  vow, 

They  swore  for  to  fulfil — 
'You'll  read  it  yet  in  history,' 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Next  day  the  ashen  handle 

He  took  down  from  where  it  hung, 
The  toothed  rake,  full  scornfully, 

Into  the  fire  he  flung  ; 
And  in  its  stead  a  shining  blade 

Is  gleaming  once  again — 
(Oh  !  for  a  hundred  thousand  of 

Such  weapons  and  such  men  ! ) 


202  BOOK  III 


Right  soldierly  he  wielded  it, 

And -going  through  his  drill— 
'  Attention  ' — '  charge  ' — '  front,  point ' — *  advance  ! 

Cried  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

She  looked  at  him  with  woman's  pride, 

With  pride  and  woman's  fears  ; 
She  flew  to  him,  she  clung  to  him, 

And  dried  away  her  tears  ; 
He  feels  her  pulse  beat  truly, 

While  her  arms  around  him  twine — 
<  Now  God  be  praised  for  your  stout  heart, 

Brave  little  wife  of  mine.' 
He  swung  his  first-born  in  the  air, 

While  joy  his  heart  did  fill— 
*  You'll  be  a  FREEMAN  yet,  my  boy,' 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Ohl  knowledge  is  a  wondrous  power, 

And  stronger  than  the  wind  ; 
And  thrones  shall  fall,  and  despots  bow, 

Before  the  might  of  mind  ; 
The  poet  and  the  orator 

The  heart  of  man  can  sway, 
And  would  to  the  kind  heavens 

That  Wolfe  Tone  were  here  to-day  ! 
Yet  trust  me,  friends,  dear  Ireland's  strength — 

Her  truest  strength— is  still 
The  rough-and-ready  roving  boys, 

Like  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

MVLES  O'HEA 

His  locks  are  whitened  with  the  snows  of  nigh  a  hundred  years, 
And  now  with  cheery  look  and  step  the  journey's  end  he  nears  ; 
He  feared  his  God,  and  bravely  played  the  part  he  had  to  play, 
For  lack  of  courage  never  stained  the  soul  of  Myles  O'Hea. 

A  young  man  'lighted  from  his  steed,  and  by  that  old  man  stood. 
'  Good  friend,'  he  asked,  '  what  see  you  in  yon  castle  by  the  wood  ? 


CHARLES  J.   KICK  HAM  203 

I've  marked  the  proud  glare  of  your  eye  and  of  your  cheek  the 

glow.' 
'  My  heart,'  the  old  man  said,  *  went  back  to  eighty  years  ago  ! 

'  I  was  a  beardless  stripling  then,  but  proud  as  any  lord  : 
And  well  I  might— in  my  right  hand  I  grasped  a  freeman's  sword  ; 
And,  though  an  humble  peasant's  son,  proud  squires  and  even  peers 
Would  greet  me  as  a  comrade— we  were  the  Volunteers  ! 

'  That  castle  was  our  colonel's.     On  yonder  grassy  glade 

At  beat  of  drum  our  regiment  oft  mustered  for  parade, 

And  from  that   castle's   parapets  scarfs  waved  and  bright   eyes 

shone 
When  our  bugles  woke  the  echoes  with  the  march  of  "  Garryowen." 

*  Oh  !  then  'twas  never  thought  a  shame  or  crime  to  love  the  land, 
For  freedom  was  the  watchword,  nerving  every  heart  and  hand  ; 
And  Grattan,  Flood,  and  Charlemont  were  blessed  by  high  and 

low 
When  our  army  won  the  Parliament  of  eighty  years  ago.' 

*  And  what  of  him,  your  colonel  ?'     '  He,  good  old  colonel,  died 
While  the  nation's  heart  was  pulsing  with  the  full  and  flowing  tide 
Of  liberty  and  plenteousness  that  coursed  through  every  vein. 
How  soon  it  ebbed,  that  surging  tide  !     Will  it  ever  flow  again  ? 

*  Who  owned  the  castle  after  him  ? '     'His  son— my  friend  and  foe. 
You  see  yon  rocks  among  the  gorse  in  the  valley  down  below. 
We  leaped  among  them  from  the  rocks,  and  through  their  ranks 

we  bore  ; 
I  headed  the  United  men,  he  led  my  yeoman  corps. 

'  They  reeled  before  our  reddened  pikes  ;  his  blood  had  dyed  my 

blade, 

But  I  spared  him  for  his  father's  sake ;  and  well  the  debt  he  paid  ! 
For  how,  when  right  was  trampled  down,  'scaped  I  the  tyrant's 

ban? 
The  yeoman  captain's  castle,  sir,  contained  an  outlawed  man  ! 

*  Yes,  England  was  his  glory — the  mistress  of  the  sea, 

"  William,"  "  Wellington,"  and  "  Wooden  Walls,"  his  toasts  would 
ever  be. 


204  BOOK  III 


I'd  pledge  "  Green  Erin  and  her  Cause,"  and  then  he'd  laugh  and 

say 
That  he  knew  one  honest  traitor— the  "rebel"  Myles  O'Hea. 

'  In  after-years  he  threatened  hard  to  pull  our  roof-trees  down 

If  we  failed  to  vote  at  his  command.     Some  quailed  before  his 

frown. 

Then  I  seized  the  old  green  banner  and  I  shouted  "  Altars  free  ! " 
The  gallant  Forties,1  to  a  man,  left  him  to  follow  me  ! 

*  Well,  God  be  with  him.     He  was  forced  from  home  and  lands  to 

part, 
But  to  think  'twas  England  robbed  him — it  was  that  that  broke  his 

heart. 
"  Old  friend,"  he  said,  and  grasped  my  hand,  "  I'm  loyal  to  my 

Queen, 
But   would    such  a  law,  at   such  a  time,  be   made  in   College 

Green?" 

'  And  while  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  his  grandson,  a  brave 

youth, 

Clung  to  that  tree  beside  the  brook  (good  sir,  I  tell  you  truth), 
And,  sobbing,  kissed  it  like  a  child  ;  nor  tears  could  I  restrain.' 
The  young  man  turned  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hunter's  flowing 

mane. 

'  And  Myles  O'Hea,'  he  spake  at  length, '  have  tropic  suns  and  time 
So  changed  the  boy  who  weeping  clung  to  yon  old  spreading  lime  ? 
I  was  that  boy.     My  father's  home  and  lands  are  mine  again  : 
But  for  every  pound  he  paid  for  them  I  paid  the  Scotchman  ten.' 

High  wassail  in  the  castle  halls.     The  wealthy  bride  is  there, 
And  gentlemen  and  tenantry,  proud  dames  and  maidens  fair, 
And  there— like  Irish  bard  of  old — beside  the  bridegroom  gay 
A  white-haired  peasant  calmly  sits  ;  'tis  poor  old  Myles  O'Hea. 


1  The   forty-shilling  freeholders,  whose  votes  won  Catholic  Emanci- 
pation, and  who  were  themselves  disfranchised  in  consequence. 


CHARLES  J.   KICK  HAM  205 

With  swimming  eyes   the  bridegroom   grasps  that  noble  rustic's 

hand, 
While  round    the  board,  with  brimming  cups,  the  wassailers  all 

stand, 

And  louder  swelled  the  harper's  strains  and  wilder  rose  the  cheers 
When  he  pledged  '  Your  comrades  long  ago — the  Irish  Volunteers.' 

*  Now,  God  be  praised,'  quoth  Myles  O'Hea,  'they  foully  lie  who 

say 

That  poor  Old  Ireland's  glory's  gone,  for  ever  passed  away. 
But,  gentlemen,  what  say  you  ?     Were  not  this  a  braver  show 
If  sword-hilts  clanked  against  the  board  like  eighty  years  ago?' 

THE  IRISH  PEASANT  GIRL 

SHE  lived  beside  the  Anner, 

At  the  foot  of  Slievenamon, 
A  gentle  peasant  girl, 

With  mild  eyes  like  the  dawn — 
Her  lips  were  dewy  rose-buds  ; 

Her  teeth  of  pearls  rare  ; 
And  a  snow-drift  'neath  a  beechen  bough, 

Her  neck  and  nut-brown  hair. 

How  pleasant  'twas  to  meet  her 

On  Sunday,  when  the  bell 
Was  filling,  with  its  mellow  tones, 

Lone  wood  and  grassy  dell  ! 
And  when  at  eve  young  maidens 

Stray'd  the  river  bank  along, 
The  widow's  brown-haired  daughter 

Was  loveliest  of  the  throng. 

Oh,  brave,  brave  Irish  girls  — 

We  well  may  call  you  brave  ! — 
Sure  the  least  of  all  your  perils 

Is  the  stormy  ocean  wave, 
When  you  leave  your  quiet  valleys 

And  cross  the  Atlantic  foam, 
To  hoard  your  hard-won  earnings 

For  the  helpless  ones  at  home. 


2o6  BOOK  III 


'Write  word  to  my  own  dear  mother, 

Say  we'll  meet  with  God  above  ; 
And  tell  my  little  brothers 

I  send  them  all  my  love. 
May  the  angels  ever  guard  them 

Is  their  dying  sister's  prayer' — 
And  folded  in  the  letter 

Was  a  braid  of  nut-brown  hair. 

Ah,  cold  and  well-nigh  callous 

This  weary  heart  has  grown 
For  thy  helpless  fate,  dear  Ireland, 

And  for  sorrows  of  my  own  ; 
Yet  a  tear  my  eye  will  moisten, 

As  by  Anner's  side  I  stray, 
For  the  lily  of  the  mountain  foot 

That  withered  far  away. 

ST.  JOHN'S  EVE 

'  Do  you  remember  that  St.  John's  Eve,  three  years  ago,  when  \ve  walked 
round  by  Bally cullen  to  see  the  bonfires  1'— Letter  to  Kickham  in  Woking 
Convict  Prison. 

YES,  Gertrude,  I  remember  well 

That  St.  John's  Eve,  three  years  ago, 
When,  as  the  slanting  sunbeams  fell 

Across  the  mountains  all  aglow, 
Upon  the  lonely  bridge  we  turned 

To  watch  the  roseate,  russet  hue, 
Till  faint  and  fainter  still  it  burned 

As  if  'twere  quenched  by  falling  dew. 

Then  up  the  sloping  hill  we  clomb, 

And  backward  looked  with  pensive  eyes, 
Along  the  vale,  our  own  sweet  home, 

The  dearest  spot  beneath  the  skies  ; 
Dear  for  the  golden  hours  that  were 

When  life's  glad  morn  all  radiant  shone, 
Fondly  dear  for  loved  ones  there, 

And  dearer  still  for  loved  ones  gone. 


CHARLES  J.   KICKHAM  207 


The  sun  glides  down  behind  the  hill ; 

The  shadows  deepen  while  we  gaze  ; 
The  chapel,  the  Old  Home,  the  mill, 

Are  hidden  in  the  twilight  haze. 
The  wayside  shepherd  on  the  height 

Waits  our  approach,  nor  seems  to  heed 
His  vagrant  flock  throng  out  of  sight — 

Adown  the  winding  road  they  speed. 

Deep  learn'd  was  he  in  Gaelic  lore, 

And  loved  to  talk  of  days  gone  by; 
(A  saddening  theme,  those  days  of  yore  !) 

And  still  he  turned  with  sparkling  eye 
From  Druid  rites  and  Christian  fane, 

From  champion  bold  and  monarch  grand, 
To  tell  of  fray  and  foray  when 

His  sires  were  princes  in  the  land. 

When  to  the  Well-mile  bridge  we  came, 

You  pointed  where  the  moonbeams  white 
Silvered  the  stream  ;  when,  lo  !  a  flame, 

A  wavy  flame  of  ruddy  light, 
Leaped  up,  the  farmyard  fence  above, 

And,  while  his  children's  shout  rang  high, 
His  cow?  the  farmer  slowly  drove 

Across  the  blaze,  he  knew  not  why.1 

Soon  round  the  vale  — above,  below, 

And  high  upon  the  blue  hills'  brows 
The  bonfires  shine  with  steady  glow, 

Or  blink  through  screening  orchard  boughs. 
And  now,  in  my  lone  dismal  cell, 

While  I  that  starry  scene  recall — 
The  fields,  the  hills,  the  sheltered  dell— 

I  close  my  eyes  and  see  them  all. 

My  dear-loved  land  must  it  be  mine 
No  more,  except  in  dreams,  to  see  ? 

1  A  relic  of  ancient  fire-worship  practised  on  St.  John's  Eve,  and  still 
lingering  in  some  parts  of  Ireland. 


208  BOOK  III 


Yet  think  not,  friends,  that  I  repine 

At  my  sad  fate — if  sad  it  be. 
Think  not  the  captive  weakly  pines, 

That  from  his  soul  all  joy  hath  flown. 
Oh,  no  !  the  '  solemn  starlight '  shines 

As  brightly  as  it  ever  shone. 

And  though  I've  had  my  share  of  pain, 

And  sunken  is  my  cheek  and  pale, 
Yet,  Gertrude,  were  it  ours  again 

On  St.  John's  Eve,  in  Compsey  vale, 
While  loitering  by  the  Anner  stream 

To  view  the  mountain's  purpled  dome — 
Waiting  to  see  the  bonfires  gleam 

All  round  our  quiet  hill-clasped  home — 

We'd  talk  of  bygone  blissful  hours — 

And  oh  !  what  blissful  hours  I've  known  ! 
It  was  a  world  of  smiles  and  flowers, 

That  little  home-world  of  our  own. 
And  happy  thoughts  each  heart  would  fill — 

What  else  but  happy  could  we  be, 
While  Hope  stood  smiling  on  the  hill 

And  in  the  valley,  Memory  ? 


ROBERT   DWYER    JOYCE 

A  VIGOROUS  ballad-poet,  who  was  born  at  Glenosheen,  County 
Limerick,  in  1830,  and  died  in  Dublin  on  October  24,  1883.  He 
practised  as  a  physician  with  much  success  in  Boston,  U.S.A. 
His  poems  are  very  numerous,  and  he  published  four  volumes 
of  verse,  as  well  as  a  couple  of  volumes  of  stories.  Some  of 
his  songs  and  ballads  have  much  power.  He  was  a  frequent 
contributor  to  The  Irish  People,  and  may  be  reckoned  as  one 
of  the  poets  of  the  Fenian  movement.  His  most  ambitious 
work  is  a  version  of  the  tale  of  '  Deirdre,'  which  had  an  immense 
success  in  the  U.S.A.  He  was  brother  of  Dr.  P.  W.  Joyce, 
the  well-known  educationalist  and  collector  of  Irish  music. 


ROBER T  DW YER  JO YCE  209 

FlNEEN   THE   ROVER 

AN  old  castle  towers  o'er  the  billow 

That  thunders  by  Cleena's  green  land, 
And  there  dwelt  as  gallant  a  rover 

As  ever  grasped  hilt  by  the  hand. 
Eight  stately  towers  of  the  waters 
Lie  anchored  m  Baltimore  Bay, 
And  over  their  twenty  score  sailors, 
Oh  !  who  but  the  Rover  holds  sway  ? 
Then,  ho  !  for  Fineen  the  Rover  I 

Fineen  O'Driscoll  the  free  ! 
Straight  as  the  mast  of  his  galley, 
And  wild  as  the  wave  of  the  sea  ! 

The  Saxons  of  Cork  and  Moyallo, 

They  harried  his  lands  with  their  powers  ; 
He  gave  them  a  taste  of  his  cannon, 

And  drove  them  like  wolves  from  his  towers. 
The  men  of  Clan  London  brought  over 

Their  strong  fleet  to  make  him  a  slave  ; 
They  met  him  by  Mizen's  wild  highland, 

And  the  sharks  crunched  their  bones  'neath  the  wave 
Then,  ho  !  for  Fineen  the  Rover, 

Fineen  O'Driscoll  the  free  ; 
With  step  like  the  red  stag  of  Beara, 
And  voice  like  the  bold  sounding  sea. 

Long  time  in  that  old  battered  castle, 
Or  out  on  the  waves  with  his  clan, 
He  feasted  and  ventured  and  conquered, 

But  ne'er  struck  his  colours  to  man. 
In  a  fight  'gainst  the  foes  of  his  country 
He  died  as  a  brave  man  should  die  ; 
And  he  sleeps  'neath  the  waters  of  Cleena, 
Where  the  waves  sing  his  caoine  to  the  sky. 
Then,  ho  !  for  Fineen  the  Rover, 

Fineen  O'Driscoll  the  free  ; 
With  eye  like  the  ospre/s  at  morning, 
And  smile  like  the  sun  on  the  sea. 


210  BOOK  III 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK 

HE  grasped  his  ponderous  hammer  ;  he  could  not  stand  it  more, 
To  hear  the  bombshells  bursting  and  the  thundering  battle's  roar. 
He  said :  '  The  breach  they're  mounting,  the  Dutchman's  murder- 
ing crew — 
I'll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads  and  see  what  that  can  do  ! 

4  Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up  that  iron  well ; 

'Tis  Sarsfield's  horse  that  wants  the  shoes,  so  mind  not  shot  or 

shell.' 
'  Ah,  sure,'  cried  both,  '  the  horse  can  wait — for  Sarsfield's  on  the 

wall, 
And  where  you  go  we'll  follow,  with  you  to  stand  or  fall !' 

The  blacksmith  raised  his  hammer,  and  rushed  into  the  street, 
His  'prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless  foe  to  meet  — 
High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick,  with  dauntless  hearts  they  stood 
Where  the  bombshells  burst  and  shot  fell  thick,  and  redly  ran  the 
blood. 

4  Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran,  and  mark  you,  swarthy  Ned; 
This  day  we'll  prove  the  thickness  of  many  a  Dutchman's  head  ! 
Hurrah  !  upon  their  bloody  path  they're  mounting  gallantly  ; 
And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave  him  to  this  and  me  ! 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a  captain  brave  ! 

A  captain  of  the  Grenadiers,  with  blood-stained  dirk  and  glaive  ; 

He  pointed  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in  vain, 

For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  hammer  found  his  brain  ! 

The  next  that  topp'd  the  rampart,  he  was  a  colonel  bold, 
Bright  thro'  the  murk  of  battle  his  helmet  flashed  with  gold. 
*  Gold  is  no  match  for  iron  ! '  the  doughty  blacksmith  said, 
As  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked  his  foeman's  head  ! 

'  Hurrah  for  gallant  Limerick  ! '  black  Ned  and  Moran  cried, 

As  on  the   Dutchmen's   leaden   heads   their  hammers  well   they 

plied  ; 

A  bombshell  burst  between  them — one  fell  without  a  groan, 
One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the  breach  was  thrown  ! 


ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE  211 

'  Brave    smith  !    brave    smith  ! '     cried     Sarsfield,    '  beware    the 

treacherous  mine — 
Brave   smith  !    brave  smith  !    fall   backward,  or   surely  death   is 

thine  ! ' 

The  smith  sprang  up  the  rampart  and  leaped  the  blood-stained  wall, 
As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foemen,  breach  and  all ! 

Up  like  a  red  volcano  they  thundered  wild  and  high, 

Spear,  gun,  and  shattered  standard,  and  foemen  thro'  the  sky  ; 

And  dark  and  bloody  was  the  shower  that  round  the  blacksmith 

fell- 
He  thought  upon  his  'prentice  boys,  they  were  avenged  well  I 

On  foemen  and  defenders  a  silence  gathered  down, 

'Twas  broken  by  a  triumph-shout  that  shook  the  ancient  town  ; 

As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged  and  slew, 

And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what  Irish  hearts  can  do  ! 

Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto  the  river  side, 
He  hammered  on  the  foes'  pontoon,  to  sink  it  in  the  tide  ; 
The  timber  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took  no  crack  or  strain — 
Mavrone,  'twon't  break,'   the   blacksmith  roared;   Til  try  their 
heads  again  ! ' 

The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy,  and  blew  his  bellows  strong  ; 
He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o'er  it  sang  no  song  : 
•  Ochon  !  my  boys  are  dead,'  he  cried  ;  '  their  loss  I'll  long  deplore, 
But  comfort's  in  my  heart — their  graves  are    red  with    foreign 
gore  !' 


JOHN   KEEGAN   CASEY 

SON  of  a  peasant  farmer,  born  near  Mullingar,  County 
Westmeath.  He  was  imprisoned  as  a  Fenian  in  1867,  and  in 
consequence  of  his  sufferings  died  in  1870,  aged  twenty-three. 
His  funeral  at  Glasnevin  is  said  to  have  been  attended  by 
fifty  thousand  people.  He  was  one  of  the  few  poets  produced 

p  2 


212  BOOK  III 


by  the  Fenian  movement.  That  his  poetry  had  fire  and  sweet- 
ness the  following  verses  show,  and  these,  with  his  youth  and 
his  fate,  have  greatly  endeared  him  to  his  countrymen. 

His  POEMS  have  been  published  by  Cameron  Ferguson  &  Co.,  Glasgow. 

THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON 

A.D.    1798 

*  OH,  then,  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 

Tell  me  why  you  hurry  so  ? ' 
'  Hush  !  ma  bouchal,  hush,  and  listen  ; ' 

And  his  cheeks  were  all  a-glow  : 
4  I  bear  ordhers  from  the  Captain — 

Get  you  ready  quick  and  soon  ; 
For  the  pikes  must  be  together 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon.' 

'Oh,  then,  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 
Where  the  gath'rin'  is  to  be  ? ' 

*  In  the  ould  spot  by  the  river, 

Right  well  known  to  you  and  me ; 
One  word  more — for  signal  token 

Whistle  up  the  marchin'  tune, 
With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder, 

By  the  risin'  of  the  moon.' 

Out  from  many  a  mud- wall  cabin 

Eyes  were  watching  thro'  that  night ; 
Many  a  manly  chest  was  throbbing 

For  the  blessed  warning  light. 
Murmurs  passed  along  the  valleys, 

Like  the  banshee's  lonely  croon, 
And  a  thousand  blades  were  flashing 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon. 

There,  beside  the  singing  river, 

That  dark  mass  of  men  were  seen — 

Far  above  the  shining  weapons 
Hung  their  own  beloved  '  Green.' 


JOHN  KEEGAN  CASEY  213 

'  Death  to  ev'ry  foe  and  traitor  ! 

Forward  !  strike  the  marchin'  tune, 
And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  freedom  ! 

'Tis  the  risin'  of  the  moon.' 

Well  they  fought  for  poor  Old  Ireland, 

And  full  bitter  was  their  fate  ; 
(Oh  !  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow 

Fill  the  name  of 'Ninety-Eight !) 
Yet,  thank  God,  e'en  still  are  beating 

Hearts  in  manhood's  burning  noon, 
Who  would  follow  in  their  footsteps 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon  ! 

MAIRE  MY  GIRL 

Air — '  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh  ' 

OVER  the  dim  blue  hills 

Strays  a  wild  river, 
Over  the  dim  blue  hills 

Rests  my  heart  ever. 
Dearer  and  brighter  than 

Jewels  and  pearl, 
Dwells  she  in  beauty  there, 

Maire  '  my  girl. 

Down  upon  Claris  heath 

Shines  the  soft  berry, 
On  the  brown  harvest  tree 

Droops  the  red  cherry. 
Sweeter  thy  honey  lips, 

Softer  the  curl 
Straying  adown  thy  cheeks, 

Maire  my  girl. 

'Twas  on  an  April  eve 

That  I  first  met  her  ; 
Many  an  eve  shall  pass 

Ere  I  forget  her. 


1  Pronounced,  Maurya. 


214  BOOK  III 


Since  my  young  heart  has  been 

Wrapped  in  a  whirl, 
Thinking  and  dreaming  of 

Maire  my  girl. 

She  is  too  kind  and  fond 

Ever  to  grieve  me, 
She  has  too  pure  a  heart 

E'er  to  deceive  me. 
Were  I  Tyrconnell's  chief 

Or  Desmond's  earl, 
Life  would  be  dark,  wanting 

Maire  my  girl. 

Over  the  dim  blue  hills 

Strays  a  wild  river, 
Over  the  dim  blue  hills 

Rests  my  heart  ever  ; 
Dearer  and  brighter  than 

Jewels  or  pearl, 
Dwells  she  in  beauty  there, 

Maire  my  girl. 


ELLEN   O'LEARY 

THE  Fenian  movement  differed  from  that  of  1848  in  being 
singularly  unproductive  of  poetry—  a  fact  which  is  all  the  more 
remarkable  because  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  movement  and 
editor  of  its  journal,  The  Irish  People,  was  a  born  lover  of 
letters.  This  was  Mr.  John  O'Leary,  brother  of  Ellen  O'Leary, 
from  whose  small  volume— LAYS  OF  COUNTRY,  HOME  AND 
FRIENDS  (1891) — two  pieces  are  here  given.  Miss  O'Leary 
was  born  in  Tipperary,  1831,  and  from  about  her  twentieth  year 
was  a  contributor  to  various  periodicals,  including  of  course 
her  brother's  journal.  She  took  an  active  part  in  the  Fenian 
conspiracy  after  the  arrest  of  Stephens,  whose  escape  she 
materially  assisted.  Her  brother  was  sentenced  to  twenty  years' 


ELLEN  O'LEARY  215 


penal  servitude  in  1865,  and  returned  to  Ireland  after  five 
years  of  imprisonment  and  fourteen  of  exile.  She  then  joined 
him  in  Dublin.  She  died  in  1889,  after  a  painful  illness  borne 
with  her  wonted  gentleness  and  fortitude.  Her  poems  have 
been  described  by  the  editor  of  her  volume  as  '  simple  field- 
flowers  which  blossomed  above  the  subterranean  workings  of  a 
grim  conspiracy.' 

To  GOD  AND  IRELAND  TRUE 

I  SIT  beside  my  darling's  grave, 

Who  in  the  prison  died, 
And  tho'  my  tears  fall  thick  and  fast, 

I  think  of  him  with  pride  : 
Ay,  softly  fall  my  tears  like  dew, 
For  one  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

*  I  love  my  God  o'er  all,'  he  said, 

'  And  then  I  love  my  land, 
And  next  I  love  my  Lily  sweet, 

Who  pledged  me  her  white  hand : 
To  each — to  all — I'm  ever  true  ; 
To  God — to  Ireland — and  to  you.' 

No  tender  nurse  his  hard  bed  smoothed 

Or  softly  raised  his  head  ; 
He  fell  asleep  and  woke  in  heaven 

Ere  I  knew  he  was  dead  ; 
Yet  why  should  I  my  darling  rue  ? 
He  was  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  glorious  memory  ; 

I'm  prouder  than  a  queen 
To  sit  beside  my  hero's  grave, 

And  think  on  what  has  been  : 
And,  oh,  my  darling,  I  am  true 
To  God — to  Ireland— and  to  you. 


216  BOOK  III 


MY  OLD  HOME 

LADY  LODGE 

A  POOR  old  cottage  tottering  to  its  fall ; 

Some  faded  rose-trees  scattered  o'er  the  wall  ; 

Four  wooden  pillars  all  aslant  one  way  ; 

A  plot  in  front,  bright  green,  amid  decay, 

Where  my  wee  pets,  whene'er  they  came  to  tea, 

Laughed,  danced,  and  played,  and  shouted  in  high  glee 

A  rusty  paling  and  a  broken  gate 

Shut  out  the  world  and  bounded  my  estate. 

Dusty  and  damp  within,  and  rather  bare  ; 
Chokeful  of  books,  here,  there  and  everywhere  ; 
Old-fashioned  windows,  and  old  doors  that  creaked, 
Old  ceilings  cracked  and  grey,  old  walls  that  leaked ; 
Old  chairs  and  tables,  and  an  ancient  lady 
Worked  out  in  tapestry,  all  rather  shady  ; 
Bright  pictures,  in  gilt  frames,  the  only  colour, 
Making  the  grimy  wallpaper  look  duller. 

What  was  the  charm,  the  glamour  that  o'erspread 
That  dingy  house  and  made  it  dear  ?     The  dead — 
The  dead— the  gentle,  loving,  kind  and  sweet, 
The  truest,  tenderest  heart  that  ever  beat. 
While  she  was  with  me  'twas  indeed  a  home, 
Where  every  friend  was  welcome  when  they'd  come. 
Her  soft  eyes  shone  with  gladness,  and  her  grace 
Refined  and  beautified  the  poor  old  place. 

But  she  is  gone  who  made  home  for  me  there, 
Whose  child-like  laugh,  whose  light  step  on  the  stair 
Filled  me  with  joy  and  gladness,  hope  and  cheer. 
To  heaven  she  soared,  and  left  me  lonely  here. 
The  old  house  now  has  got  a  brand-new  face  ; 
The  roses  are  uprooted  ;  there's  no  trace 
Of  broken  bough  or  blossom — no  decay — 
The  past  is  dead — the  world  wags  on  alway. 


JOHN  FRANCIS   O>  DON  NELL  217 


JOHN   FRANCIS   O'DONNELL 

BORN  in  Limerick,  1837,  J.  F.  O'Donnell  plunged  very  early 
into  journalism,  writing  for  innumerable  papers  in  Ireland, 
England,  and  the  United  States  of  America.  He  was  one  of 
the  prominent  contributors  to  Mr.  O'Leary's  Irish  People,  and 
was  a  warm  sympathiser  with  the  Fenian  movement.  In  1873  he 
obtained  an  appointment  in  the  office  of  the  Agent-General  for 
New  Zealand,  but  died  in  the  following  year,  aged  thirty-seven. 
His  POEMS  were  published  by  the  Southwark  Irish  Literary  Club, 
with  an  introduction  by  Richard  Bowling,  in  1891.  He  wrote 
apparently  with  great  energy  and  at  lightning  speed,  throwing 
his  idea  into  the  first  words  that  came.  The  general  level  of 
his  work  is  therefore  not  so  high  as  one  might  expect  from  the 
following  song,  in  which  the  impetuosity  and  spirit  of  the 
impromptu  are  happily  united  with  a  beautiful  technique. 

A  SPINNING  SONG 

MY  love  to  fight  the  Saxon  goes, 

And  bravely  shines  his  sword  of  steel ; 
A  heron's  feather  decks  his  brows, 

And  a  spur  on  either  heel ; 
His  steed  is  blacker  than  the  sloe, 

And  fleeter  than  the  falling  star ; 
Amid  the  surging  ranks  he'll  go 

And  shout  for  joy  of  war. 

Tinkle,   twinkle,   pretty   spindle  ;   let   the   white   wool   drift   and 

dwindle. 

Oh  !  we  weave  a  damask  doublet  for  my  love's  coat  of  steel. 
Hark  !  the    timid,   turning   treadle   crooning   soft,   old-fashioned 

ditties 
To  the  low,  slow  murmur  of  the  brown  round  wheel. 

My  love  is  pledged  to  Ireland's  fight ; 

My  love  would  die  for  Ireland's  weal, 
To  win  her  back  her  ancient  right, 

And  make  her  foemen  reel. 


218  BOOK  IH 


Oh  !  close  I'll  clasp  him  to  my  breast 

When  homeward  from  the  war  he  comes ; 
The  fires  shall  light  the  mountain's  crest, 

The  valley  peal  with  drums. 
Tinkle,   twinkle,   pretty   spindle ;   let    the   white   wool    drift  and 

dwindle. 

Oh  !  we  weave  a  damask  doublet  for  my  love's  coat  of  steel. 
Hark  !   the   timid,   turning   treadle   crooning   soft,   old-fashioned 

ditties 
To  the  low,  slow  murmur  of  the  brown  round  wheel. 


THOMAS   CAULF1ELD   IRWIN 

IRWIN  possessed  many  of  the  essential  qualities  of  a  poet ;  he 
had  imagination  and  music,  and  he  had  gained  wide  culture  by 
education  and  travel.  But  for  a  strain  of  mental  derangement 
he  might  have  left  behind  him  a  very  distinguished  name.  In 
his  later  days,  as  he  used  to  be  seen  in  the  Dublin  streets,  he 
presented  a  weird  and  uncouth  but  venerable  figure.  The 
gentle  mania  which  had  then  descended  upon  him  had,  how- 
ever, occasionally  made  its  appearance  much  earlier.  The 
great  Irish  antiquary,  O'Donovan,  has  left  a  picture  of  him  and 
his  ways  in  a  note  to  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson : 

I  understand  that  the  mad  poet  who  is  my  next-door  neighbour 
claims  acquaintance  with  you.  He  says  I  am  his  enemy,  and  watch  him 
through  the  thickness  of  the  wall  which  divides  our  houses.  He  threatens 
in  consequence  to  shoot  me.  One  of  us  must  leave.  I  have  a  houseful 
of  books  and  children  ;  he  has  an  umbrella  and  a  revolver.  If,  under  the 
circumstances,  you  could  use  your  influence  and  persuade  him  to  remove 
to  other  quarters,  you  would  confer  a  great  favour  on,  yours  sincerely, 
JOHN  O'DONOVAN. 

Irwin's  besetting  sin  was  diffuseness.  He  published  six 
volumes,  and  much  of  them  is  a  waste  of  words.  But  perhaps 
there  is  scarcely  one  of  his  poems  in  which  one  may  not  find 


THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRW1N  219 


lines  that  ring  with  the  unmistakable  note  of  true  poetry.  The 
'mad  poet'  was  a  keen  observer  both  of  men  and  Nature, 
delighting  in  life  wherever  he  found  it,  and  capable  of  render- 
ing what  he  saw  and  felt  in  verse — now  charged  with  tragic 
solemnity,  and  now  coloured  with  a  delicate  fancy.  He  must 
be  reckoned  as  a  great  but  unrealised  possibility  in  modern  Irish 
literature. 

Thomas  Caulfield  Irwin  was  born  in  the  County  Down,  1823.  He  wrote 
much  in  various  periodicals,  and  was  on  the  staff  of  The  Irish  People,  the 
organ  of  the  Fenian  movement,  edited  by  John  O'Leary.  In  an  essay  on 
his  writings  in  Tinsley^s  Magazine  he  is  described  as  the  '  Irish  Keats. '  He 
published  his  VERSICLES  in  1856,  and  followed  it  with  IRISH  POEMS  AND 
LEGENDS,  1869;  SONGS  AND  ROMANCES,  1878;  WINTER  AND  SUMMER 
STORIES  (prose),  1879  ;  PICTURES  AND  SONGS,  1880  ;  SONNETS  ON  THE 
POETRY  AND  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE,  1881  ;  POEMS,  SKETCHES  AND  SONGS, 
1889.  He  had  been  intended  for  the  medical  profession,  but  lost  all  his 
private  means  in  1848,  and  from  this  time  lived  a  desultory  and,  at  least 
in  outward  circumstances,  rather  unhappy  life.  He  died  in  Dublin 
in  1892. 

A  WINDOW  SONG 

WITHIN  the  window  of  this  white, 

Low,  ivy-roofed,  retired  abode, 
We  look  through  sunset's  sinking  light 

Along  the  lone  and  dusty  road 
That  leads  unto  the  river's  bridge, 

Where  stand  two  sycamores  broad  and  green, 
Whence  from  their  rising  grassy  ridge 

The  low  rays  lengthen  shade  and  sheen. 
The  village  panes  reflect  the  glow, 

And  all  about  the  scene  is  still, 
Save,  by  the  foamy  dam  below, 

The  drumming  wheel  of  the  whitewashed  mill  : 

A  radiant  quiet  fills  the  air, 

And  gleam  the  dews  along  the  turf : 

While  the  great  wheel,  bound 

On  its  drowsy  round, 
Goes  snoring  through  the  gusts  of  surf. 


220  BOOK  III 


A-south,  beyond  the  hamlet  lie 

The  low,  blue  hills  in  mingling  mist, 
With  furl  of  cloud  along  the  sky, 

And  ravines  rich  as  amethyst, 
And  mellow  edges  golden-ored 

As  sinks  the  round  sun  in  the  flood, 
And  high  up  wings  the  crow  line  toward 

Old  turrets  in  the  distant  wood ; 
Awhile  from  some  twilighted  roof 

The  blue  smoke  rises  o'er  the  thatch  ; 
By  cots  along  the  green  aloof 

Some  home-come  labourer  lifts  the  latch ; 

Or  housewife  sings  her  child  to  sleep, 
Or  calls  her  fowl-flock  from  the  turf, 

While  the  mill-wheel,  bound 

On  its  drowsy  round, 
Goes  snoring  through  the  gusts  of  surf 

Still  at  our  open  window,  where 

Gleams  on  the  leaves  the  lamp  new  lit, 
For  hours  we  read  old  books,  and  share 

Their  thoughts  and  pictures,  love  and  wit : 
As  midnight  nears,  its  quiet  ray 

Thrown  on  the  garden's  hedges  faint, 
Pales,  as  the  moon,  from  clouds  of  grey, 

Looks  down  serenely  as  a  saint. 
We  hear  a  few  drops  of  a  shower, 

Laying  the  dust  for  morning  feet, 
Patter  upon  the  corner  bower, 

Then,  ceasing,  send  an  air  as  sweet. 

And  as  we  close  the  window  down, 
And  close  the  volumes  read  so  long, 

Even  the  wheel's  snore 

Is  heard  no  more, 
And  scarce  the  runnel's  swirling  song. 


THOMAS    CAULF1ELD  IRWIN  221 

A  CHARACTER 

As  from  the  sultry  town,  oppressed, 

At  eve  we  pace  the  suburb  green, 

There,  at  his  window  looking  west, 

Our  good  old  friend  will  sure  be  seen  : 
Upon  the  table,  full  in  light, 

Backgammon  box  and  Bible  lie  : 
Behind  the  curtain,  hid  from  sight, 
A  wine-glass  no  less  certainly  ; 
A  finger  beckons — nothing  loath 

We  enter — ah  !  his  heart  is  low, 
His  flask  is  brimming  high,  but  both 
Shall  change  their  level  ere  we  go. 

We  sit,  and  hour  on  hour  prolong, 

For  memory  loves  on  wine  to  float ; 
He  tells  old  tales,  chirps  scraps  of  song, 

And  cracks  the  nut  of  anecdote  ; 
Tells  his  best  story  with  a  smile — 

'Tis  his  by  fifty  years  of  right  ; 
And  slowly  rounds  his  joke,  the  while, 
With  eye  half  closed,  he  trims  the  light  : 
The  clock  hand  marks  the  midnight's  date, 

But  blithe  is  he  as  matin  wren  ; 
His  grasp  is  firm,  his  form  dilate 
With  wine,  and  wit  of  vanished  men. 

He  reads  each  morn  the  news  that  shook 

The  days  of  Pitt  and  Nelson,  too, 
But  little  cares  for  speech  or  book, 

Or  battle  after  Waterloo  ; 
The  present  time  is  lost  in  haze, 

The  past  alone  delights  his  eye  ; 
He  deems  the  men  of  these  poor  days 
As  worthless  all  of  history  ; 

Who  dares  to  scorn  that  love  of  thine, 

Old  friend,  for  vanished  men  and  years  ? 
Tis  youth  that  charms  thee— pass  the  wine — 
The  wine  alone  is  good  as  theirs. 


222  BOOK    III 


Each  morn  he  basks  away  the  hours 

In  garden  nooks,  and  quaffs  the  air  ; 
Chats  with  his  plants,  and  holds  with  flowers 

A  tender-toned  communion  there  ; 
Each  year  the  pleasant  prospect  shrinks, 

And  houses  close  the  olden  view  ; 
The  world  is  changing  fast ;  he  thinks 
The  sun  himself  is  failing  too. 
Ah  !  well-a-day,  the  mists  of  age 

May  make  these  summer  seasons  dim  ; 
No  matter — still  in  Chaucer's  page 
The  olden  summers  shine  for  him. 


From    CAESAR 


WITHIN  the  dim  museum  room, 

'Mid  dusty  marbles,  drowsed  in  light, 
Black  Indian  idols,  deep-sea  bones, 
Gods,  nymphs,  and  uncouth  skeletons, 
One  statua  of  stately  height 
Shines  from  an  old  nook's  shifting  gloom. 


Mark  well  :  as  from  a  turret  tall 

Droops  some  victorious  flag,  the  wreath 
Of  conquest  tops  him  ;  keenly  nigh 
Gleam  the  worn  cheek  and  falcon  eye, 
Whose  fixed  spirit  flames  beneath 
That  bony  crown  pyramidal. 

Ill 

'Tis  he  whose  name  around  the  earth 
Has  rolled  in  History's  echoing  dreams  ; 
An  antique  shape  of  Destiny, 
A  soul  daemonic,  born  to  be 
A  king  or  nothing— moulded  forth 
From  giant  Nature's  fierce  extremes. 


THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRWIN  223 


IV 

His  was  a  policy  like  fate 
That  shapes  to-day  for  future  hours  ; 
The  sov'reign  foresight  his  to  draw 
From  crude  events  their  settled  law, 
To  learn  the  soul,  and  turn  the  weight 
Of  human  passions  into  powers. 


His  was  the  mathematic  might 
That  moulds  results  from  men  and  things- 
The  eye  that  pierces  at  a  glance, 
The  will  that  wields  all  circumstance, 
The  star-like  soul  of  force  and  light, 
That  moves  etern  on  tireless  wings. 

VI 

Keen  as  some  star's  magnetic  rays, 
His  judgment  subtle  and  sublime 
Unlocked  the  wards  of  every  brain, 
Till,  clothed  in  gathered  might  amain, 
Scorning  the  inferior  Destinies, 
He  burst  the  palace  gates  of  Time. 

VII 

Bright,  swift,  resistless  as  the  sun, 

He  scorned  the  track  of  traversed  sky  ; 
Though  throned  in  empery  supreme, 
Still  held  the  mighty  past  a  dream, 
Self-emulative,  storming  on 
To  vaster  fields  of  Victory. 

VIII 

Thus  upward  ever,  storm  and  shade 
Flew  past,  but  till  he  reached  the  goal 
He  paused  not  ;  on  one  height  intent, 
But  from  the  clouds  of  blind  event, 
That  severed  to  his  gaze,  re-made 
The  wings  of  his  triumphant  soul. 


224  BOOK  III 


To  A  SKULL 

SILENT  as  thou,  whose  inner  life  is  gone, 

Let  me  essay  thy  meaning  if  I  can, 
Thou  ghostly,  ghastly  moral  carved  in  bone, 

Old  Nature's  quiet  mockery  of  man. 

I  place  thee  in  the  light  ;  the  orient  gold 

Falls  on  thy  crown,  and  strikes  each  uncouth  line ; 

Strange  shape  !  the  earth  has  ruins  manifold, 
But  none  with  meaning  terrible  as  thine. 

For  here  beneath  this  bleak  and  sterile  dome 
Did  hatred  rage,  and  silent  sorrow  mourn — 

A  little  world,  an  infinite  spirit's  home, 
A  heaven  or  hell  abandoned  and  forlorn. 

Here  thought  on  thought  arose,  like  star  on  star, 
And  love,  deemed  deathless,  habited  ;  and  now 

An  empty  mausoleum,  vainer  far 

Than  Cheops'  mountain  pyramid,  art  thou. 

Once  on  that  forehead,  radiant  as  the  day, 
Imagination  flamed  in  tranced  mood  : 

Once  on  thy  fleshy  mask,  now  fallen  away, 
Rippled  the  pulses  of  a  bridegroom's  blood  ; 

And  laughter  wrinkled  up  those  orbs  with  fun, 
And  sorrow  furrowed  channels  as  you  prayed — 

Well,  now  no  mark  is  left  on  thee  but  one, 

The  careless  stroke  of  some  old  sexton's  spade. 

Lost  are  thy  footprints  ;  changeful  as  the  air 
Is  the  brown  disc  of  earth  whereon  we  move  ; 

The  bright  sun  looks  for  them  in  vain.     Ah,  where 
Is  now  thy  life  of  action,  thought,  and  love? 

Where  are  thy  hopes,  affections,  toil,  and  gain  ? 

Lost  in  the  void  of  all- surrounding  death. 
And  does  this  pound  of  lime  alone  remain 

To  tell  of  all  thy  passion,  pride,  and  faith  ? 


THOMAS  CAULF1ELD  1RWIN  225 


'  Where  is  the  soul  ? '  we  cry — and  swift  the  sound 
Dies  in  the  morning  depth  of  voiceless  light  ; 

'The  structure  where  ?'     Oh,  bend  unto  the  ground, 
And  ask  the  worm  that  crawls  the  mould  at  night. 

The  brown  leaf  rots  upon  the  Autumn  breeze, 
The  empty  shell  is  washed  upon  the  shore, 

The  bubble  glitters  on  the  morning  seas, 
And  bursting  in  the  vast  is  seen  no  more. 

Like  mist  thy  life  has  melted  on  the  air, 
And  what  thy  nature,  history,  or  name, 

No  sorcery  now  of  science  or  of  prayer 
Can  make  the  voiceless  infinite  proclaim. 

Dumb  are  the  heavens  ;  sphere  controlling  sphere 
Chariot  the  void  through  their  allotted  span  ; 

And  man  acts  out  his  little  drama  here 
As  though  the  only  Deity  were  man. 

Cold  Fate,  who  sways  creation's  boundless  tides, 
Instinct  with  masterdom's  eternal  breath, 

Sits  in  the  void  invisible,  and  guides 
The  huge  machinery  of  life  and  death, 

Now  strewing  seeds  of  fresh  immortal  bands 
Through  drifts  of  universes  deepening  down  ; 

Now  moulding  forth  with  giant  spectral  hands 
The  fire  of  suns  colossal  for  his  crown  ; 

Too  prescient  for  feeling,  still  enfolds 

The  stars  in  death  and  life,  in  night  and  day, 

And,  clothed  in  equanimity,  beholds 
A  blossom  wither  or  a  world  decay  ; 

Sleepless,  eternal,  labouring  without  pause, 

Still  girds  with  life  his  infinite  abode, 
And  moulds  from  matter  by  developed  laws 

With  eoual  ease  the  insect  or  the  God  1 


226  BOOK  III 


Poor  human  skull,  perchance  some  mighty  race, 
The  giant  birth  of  never-ceasing  change, 

Winging  the  world,  may  pause  awhile  to  trace 
Thy  shell  in  some  re-orient  Alpine  range  ; 

Perchance  the  fire  of  some  angelic  brow 
May  glow  above  thy  ruin  in  the  sun, 

And  higher  shapes  reflect,  as  we  do  now 
Upon  the  structure  of  the  Mastodon. 


LADY   DUFFERIN 

DAUGHTER  of  Thomas  Sheridan  and  granddaughter  o/ 
R.  B.  Sheridan  the  dramatist.  She  was  born  in  1807,  and 
married  first  the  Hon.  Prjce  Black  wood,  who  became  Earl  of 
Dufferin  ;  but  just  before  her  death,  which  occurred  on  June  13, 
1867,  married  her  second  husband,  the  Earl  of  Gifford.  The 
present  Marquis  of  Dufferin  is  her  son.  She  has  written  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  and  touching  of  Irish  songs  and  ballads. 

LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT 

I'M  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  mornin',  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride  : 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high — 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  lovelight  in  your  eye. 

1^  place  is  little  changed,  Mary  ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 


LADY  DUFFERIN  227 

But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 
And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek, 

And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I've  laid  you,  darling  !  down  to  sleep 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  : 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still, 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  /  had,  Mary — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  ! 
There's  nothin'  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary 

That  still  kept  hoping  on 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  go. 
There  was  comfort  even  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger-pain  was  gnawin'  there 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 
Oh  !  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

Q2 


228  BOOK  III 


I'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  goin'  to  : 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 
But  I'll  not  forget  Old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


TERENCE'S  FAREWELL 

So,  my  Kathleen,  you're  going  to  leave  me 

All  alone  by  myself  in  this  place, 
But  I'm  sure  you  will  never  deceive  me — 

Oh  no,  if  there's  truth  in  that  face. 
Though  England's  a  beautiful  city, 

Full  of  illigant  boys — oh,  what  then  ? 
You  would  not  forget  your  poor  Terence  ; 

You'll  come  back  to  Ould  Ireland  again. 

Och,  those  English,  deceivers  by  nature, 

Though  maybe  you'd  think  them  sincere, 
They'll  say  you're  a  sweet  charming  creature, 

But  don't  you  believe  them,  my  dear. 
No,  Kathleen,  agra  \  don't  be  minding 

The  flattering  speeches  they'll  make  ; 
Just  tell  them  a  poor  boy  in  Ireland 

Is  breaking  his  heart  for  your  sake. 


LADY  DUFFERIN  229 

It's  folly  to  keep  you  from  going, 

Though,  faith,  it's  a  mighty  hard  case — 
For,  Kathleen,  you  know,  there's  no  knowing 

When  next  I  shall  see  your  sweet  face. 
And  when  you  come  back  to  me,  Kathleen — 

None  the  better  will  I  be  off  then — 
You'll  be  spaking  such  beautiful  English, 

Sure,  I  won't  know  my  Kathleen  again. 

Eh,  now,  where's  the  need  of  this  hurry  ? 

Don't  flutter  me  so  in  this  way  ! 
I've  forgot,  'twixt  the  grief  and  the  flurry, 

Every  word  I  was  maning  to  say. 
Now  just  wait  a  minute,  I  bid  ye — 

Can  I  talk  if  you  bother  me  so  ? — 
Oh,  Kathleen,  my  blessing  go  wid  ye 

Ev'ry  inch  of  the  way  that  you  go. 


ANONYMOUS 
Music  IN  THE  STREET 

This  striking  poem  appeared  in  an  Irish-American  paper  about  1864,  and 
was  suggested  by  hearing  the  6gth  Irish  regiment  play  Irish  airs  through  the 
New  York  streets. 

IT  rose  upon  the  sordid  street, 

A  cadence  sweet  and  lone  ; 
Through  all  the  vulgar  din  it  pierced, 

That  low  melodious  tone. 
It  thrilled  on  my  awakened  ear 

Amid  the  noisy  mart, 
Its  music  over  every  sound 

Vibrated  in  my  heart. 

I've  heard  full  oft  a  grander  strain 

Through  lofty  arches  roll, 
That  bore  on  the  triumphant  tide 

The  rapt  and  captive  soul. 


230  BOOK  III 


In  this  the  breath  of  my  own  hills  ,  I 

Blew  o'er  me  soft  and  warm, 
And  shook  my  spirit,  as  the  leaves 

Are  shaken  by  the  storm. 

As  sounds  the  distant  ocean  wave 

Within  a  hollow  shell, 
I  heard  within  this  far-off  strain 

The  gentle  waters  swell 
Around  my  distant  island  shore, 

And  glancing  through  the  rocks, 
While  o'er  their  full  and  gliding  wave 

The  sea-birds  wheeled  in  flocks. 

There,  through  the  long  delicious  eves 

Of  that  old  haunted  land 
The  Naiads,  in  their  floating  hair, 

Yet  dance  upon  the  strand  ; 
Till  near  and  nearer  came  the  sound, 

And  swelled  upon  the  air, 
And  still  strange  echoes  trembled  through 

The  magic  music  there. 

It  rose  above  the  ceaseless  din, 

It  filled  the  dusty  street, 
As  some  cool  breeze  of  freshness  blows 

Across  the  desert's  heat. 
It  shook  their  squalid  attic  homes — 

Pale  exiles  of  our  race — 
And  drew  to  dingy  window-panes 

Full  many  a  faded  face, 

And  eyes  whose  deep  and  lustrous  light 

Flashed  strangely,  lonely  there, 
And  many  a  young  and  wistful  brow 

Beneath  its  soft  brown  hair  ; 
And  other  eyes  of  fiercer  fire, 

And  faces  rough  and  dark — 
Brave  souls  !  that  bore  thro'  all  their  lives 

The  tempests  on  their  bark. 


ANONYMOUS  231 


In  through  the  narrow  rooms  it  poured, 

That  music  sweeping  on, 
And  perfumed  all  their  heavy  air 

With  flowers  of  summers  gone, 
With  waters  sparkling  to  the  lips, 

With  many  a  summer  breeze, 
That  woke  into  one  rippling  song 

The  shaken  summer  trees. 

In  it,  along  the  sloping  hills 

The  blue  flax-blossoms  bent  ; 
In  it,  above  the  shining  streams 

The  '  Fairy  Fingers '  leant  ; 
In  it,  upon  the  soft  green  Rath, 

There  bloomed  the  Fairy  Thorn  ; 
In  their  tired  feet  they  felt  the  dew 

Of  many  a  harvest  morn. 

In  it,  the  ripe  and  golden  corn 

Bent  down  its  heavy  head  ; 
In  it,  the  grass  waved  long  and  sweet 

Above  their  kindred  dead  ; 
In  it,  the  voices  of  the  loved 

They  might  no  more  behold 
Came  back  and  spoke  the  tender  words 

And  sang  the  songs  of  old. 

Sometimes  there  trembled  through  the  strain 

A  song  like  falling  tears, 
And  then  it  rose  and  burst  again 

Like  sudden  clashing  spears  ; 
And  still  the  faces  in  the  street 

And  at  the  window-panes 
Would  cloud  or  lighten,  gloom  or  flash 

With  all  its  changing  strains. 

But,  ah  !  too  soon  it  swept  away, 

That  pageantry  of  sound — 
Again  the  parted  tide  of  life 

Closed  darkly  all  around, 


232  BOOK  III 


As  in  the  wake  of  some  white  bark, 
In  sunshine  speeding  on, 

Close  in  the  dark  and  sullen  waves, 
The  darker  where  it  shone. 

The  faces  faded  from  my  view, 

Like  faces  in  a  dream  ; 
To  its  dull  channel  back  again 

Crept  the  subsiding  stream. 
And  I,  too,  starting  like  the  rest, 

Cast  all  the  spell  aside, 
And  let  the  fading  music  go — 

A  blossom  down  the  tide. 


DION   BOUCICAULT 

THIS  noted  actor  and  dramatist  was  born  in  Dublin,  of  French 
parentage,  on  December  26,  1822.  His  Irish  plays  are  extremely 
popular,  but  he  wrote  an  enormous  .number  of  other  dramas, 
comedies,  and  farces.  He  lived  in  America  during  the  latter 
part  of  his  life,  and  died  there  in  September  1890.  The  follow- 
ing is  supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  young  woman,  an  exile, 
whose  baby  had  died  in  her  old  home. 

I'M  very  happy  where  I  am, 

Far  across  the  say — 
I'm  very  happy  far  from  home, 

In  North  Amerikay. 

It's  lonely  in  the  night  when  Pat 

Is  sleeping  by  my  side. 
I  lie  awake,  and  no  one  knows 

The  big  tears  that  I've  cried. 

For  a  little  voice  still  calls  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  counthrie, 
And  nobody  can  hear  it  spake- 

Oh  !  nobody  but  me. 


DION  BO  UCICA  UL  T  233 

There  is  a  little  spot  of  ground 

Behind  the  chapel  wall ; 
It's  nothing  but  a  tiny  mound, 

Without  a  stone  at  all  ; 

It  rises  like  my  heart  just  now, 

It  makes  a  dawny  hill  ; 
It's  from  below  the  voice  comes  out, 

I  cannot  kape  it  still. 

Oh  !  little  Voice,  ye  call  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  counthrie, 
And  nobody  can  hear  ye  spake— 

Oh  !  nobody  but  me. 


TIMOTHY    DANIEL    SULLIVAN 

MR.  T.  D.  SULLIVAN,  born  1827  at  Bantry,  County  Cork,  has 
distinguished  himself  as  journalist,  politician,  and  poet.  His 
verse  has  consisted  in  a  great  measure  of  racy  political 
pasquinades,  whose  satire  and  humour,  tuned  to  catching 
rhythms,  have  won  them  much  popularity.  He  has  also 
written  patriotic  poems  of  a  higher  and  more  serious  class, 
and  has  tried  his  hand,  like  most  other  modern  Irish  poets,  on 
themes  taken  from  the  legendary  romances  of  Ireland.  His 
'  God  save  Ireland,'  which  may  be  said  to  dispute  the  position 
of  Irish  national  anthem  with  'The  Wearing  of  the  Green,' 
has  the  misfortune  to  be  written  to  a  commonplace  and  quite 
un-Irish  air.  Mr.  Sullivan's  best  work  is  to  be  found  in 
simple  ballads  of  fatherland  and  home.  His  style  when  dealing 
with  congenial  themes  is  clear,  direct,  and  sincere. 

Mr.  Sullivan  published  in  1868  DUNBOY  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  This 
was  followed  in  1879  by  GREEN  LEAVES,  and  in  1887  by  LAYS  OF  THE 
LAND  LEAGUE.  POEMS  was  published  in  1888  ;  PRISON  POEMS  AND 
LAYS  OF  TULLAMORE  in  the  same  year;  BLANAID  AND  OTHER  POEMS  in 
1892 ;  and  a  volume  of  selections  in  1899.  Mr.  Sullivan  has  been  a  member 


234  BOOK  ITT 

of  Parliament  since  1880,  and  has  sat  successively  for  County  Westmeath, 
for  Dublin  (College  Green  Division),  and  County  Donegal.  He  became  a 
contributor  to  The  Nation  in  1854,  and  ultimately  owned  and  edited  that 
journal  on  the  death  of  his  brother,  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan,  lie  was  Lord 
Mayor  of  Dublin  in  1886  and  1887. 


STEERING  HOME 

FAR  out  beyond  our  sheltered  bay, 

Against  the  golden  evening  sky, 
A  brown  speck  rises  ;  then  away 

It  sinks — it  dwindles  from  my  eye. 

Again  it  rises  ;  drawing  nigh, 
Its  well-known  shape  grows  sharp  and  clear - 
It  is  his  bark,  my  Donal  dear. 

And  oh  !  though  small  a  speck  it  be, 
Kind  Heaven,  that  knows  my  hope  and  fear, 

Can  tell  the  world  it  holds  for  me. 

My  boat  of  boats  is  steering  home — 

She  bends  and  sways  before  the  wind  ; 
I  cannot  see  the  milky  foam 

Beneath  her  bows  and  far  behind. 

But  oh  !  I  know  my  love  will  find — 
Howe'er  the  evening  current  flows, 
Howe'er  the  rising  night  wind  blows — 

The  shortest  course  his  keel  can  dart 
From  where  he  is  to  where  he  knows 

I  wait  to  clasp  him  to  my  heart. 

Come,  Donal,  home  !     See  by  my  side 

Your  little  sons,  impatient  too. 
All  day  they  loitered  by  the  tide, 

And  prattled  of  your  boat  and  you  ; 

Into  the  glancing  waves  they  threw 
Some  little  chips — the  surges  bore 
Their  tiny  vessels  back  to  shore ; 

Then  would  they  clap  their  hands,  and  say 
The  first  was  yours  ;  then,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Would  ask  me  why  you  stayed  away. 


TIMOTHY  DANIEL  SULLIVAN  235 

Come,  Donal,  home  !     The  red  sun  sets  ; 

Come  to  your  children  dear,  and  me  ; 
And,  bring  us  full  or  empty  nets, 

A  scene  of  joy  our  hearth  shall  be. 

You'll  tell  me  stories  of  the  sea  ; 
And  I  will  sing  the  songs  you  said 
Were  sweet  as  wild  sea-music  made 

By  mermaids  on  the  weedy  rocks — 
When  in  some  sheltered  quiet  shade, 

They  sit  and  comb  their  dripping  locks. 

He  comes  !  he  comes  !     My  boat  is  near  ; 

I  know  her  mainsail's  narrow  peak. 
They  haul  her  flowing  sheets — I  hear 

The  dry  sheaves  on  their  pivots  creak. 

He  waves  his  hand — I  hear  him  speak — 
Come  to  the  beach,  my  sons,  with  me  ; 
He'll  greet  us  from  her  side,  and  we 

Shall  meet  him  when  he  leaps  to  shore  ; 
Then  take  him  home,  and  bid  him  see 

Our  brighter  deck — our  cottage  floor. 

You  AND  I 

I  KNOW  what  will  happen,  sweet, 

When  you  and  I  are  one  ; 
Calm  and  bright  and  very  fleet, 

All  our  days  will  run. 
Fond  and  kind  our  words  will  be, 

Mixed  no  more  with  sighs  ; 
Thoughts  too  fine  for  words  we'll  see 

Within  each  other's  eyes. 

Sweet,  when  you  and  I  are  one, 

Earth  will  bloom  anew — 
Brighter  then  the  stars  and  sun, 

Softer  then  the  dew. 
Sweeter  scents  will  then  arise 

From  the  fields  and  flowers  ; 
Holier  calm  will  fill  the  skies 

In  the  midnight  hours. 


236  BOOK  III 


Music  now  unheard,  unknown, 

Then  will  reach  our  ears  ; 
Not  a  plaint  in  any  tone, 

Not  a  hint  of  tears. 
In  a  round  of  bliss  complete 

All  our  days  will  run — 
That  is  what  will  happen,  sweet, 

When  you  and  I  are  one. 

DEAR  OLD  IRELAND 

IRISH   AIR 
I 

DEEP  in  Canadian  woods  we've  met, 

From  one  bright  island  flown  ; 
Great  is  the  land  we  tread,  but  yet 

Our  hearts  are  with  our  own. 
An-d  ere  we  leave  this  shanty  small, 
While  fades  the  Autumn  day, 
We'll  toast  Old  Ireland  ! 
Dear  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah  ! 

II 
We've  heard  her  faults  a  hundred  times, 

The  new  ones  and  the  old, 
In  songs  and  sermons,  rants  and  rhymes, 

Enlarged  some  fifty-fold. 
But  take  them  all,  the  great  and  small, 
And  this  we've  got  to  say  : 
Here's  dear  Old  Ireland  ! 
Good  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah  ! 

in 
We  know  that  brave  and  good  men  tried 

To  snap  her  rusty  chain — 
That  patriots  suffered   martyrs  died — 

And  all,  'tis  said,  in  vain. 


TIMOTHY  DANIEL  SULLIVAN  237 


But  no,  boys,  no  !  a  glance  will  show 
How  far  they've  won  their  way- 
Here's  good  Old  Ireland  ! 
Brave  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah  ! 

IV 

We've  seen  the  wedding  and  the  wake, 

The  patron  and  the  fair  ; 
And  lithe  young  frames  at  the  dear  old  games 

In  the  kindly  Irish  air  ; 

And  the  loud  '  hurroo,'  we  have  heard  it  too, 
And  the  thundering  '  Clear  the  way  ! ' 
Here's  gay  Old  Ireland  ! 
Dear  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah  ! 


And  well  we  know  in  the  cool  grey  eves, 

When  the  hard  day's  work  is  o'er, 
How  soft  and  sweet  are  the  words  that  greet 

The  friends  who  meet  once  more  ; 
With  <  Mary  machree  ! "  My  Pat  !  'tis  he  ! ' 
And  '  My  own  heart  night  and  day  ! ' 
Ah,  fond  Old  Ireland  ! 
Dear  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah  ! 

VI 

And  happy  and  bright  are  the  groups  that  pass 

From  their  peaceful  homes,  for  miles 
O'er  fields  and  roads  and  hills,  to  Mass, 

When  Sunday  morning  smiles  ; 
And  deep  the  zeal  their  true  hearts  feel 
When  low  they  kneel  and  pray. 
Oh,  dear  Old  Ireland  ! 
Blest  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah ! 


238  BOOK  111 


VII 

But  deep  in  Canadian  woods  we've  met, 

And  we  never  may  see  again 
The  dear  old  isle  where  our  hearts  are  set 

And  our  first  fond  hopes  remain  ! 
But  come,  fill  up  another  cup, 
And  with  every  sup  we'll  say, 
'  Here's  dear  Old  Ireland  ! 
Loved  Old  Ireland  ! 
Ireland,  boys,  hurrah  ! 


FANNY   PARNELL 

SISTER  of  the  late  C.  S.  Parnell,  M.P.  She  was  born  in 
County  Wicklow  in  1854,  and  wrote  poems  for  The  Irish 
People  (1864-5)  before  she  reached  her  teens.  She  was 
afterwards  closely  connected  with  her  brother's  political  work, 
;ind  died  in  America  in  1882.  She  was  a  fervent  speaker  and 
organiser,  and  had  much  poetical  ability. 

POST-MORTEM 

SHALL  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory,  O  my  country  ? 

Shall  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory  ? 
Or  shall  the  darkness  close  around  them,  ere  the  sun-blaze 

Break  at  last  upon  thy  story  ? 

When  the  nations  ope  for  thee  their  queenly  circle, 

As  a  sweet  new  sister  hail  thee, 
Shall  these  lips  be  sealed  in  callous  death  and  silence 

That  have  known  but  to  bewail  thee  ? 

Shall  the  ear  be  deaf  that  only  loved  thy  praises 

When  all  men  their  tribute  bring  thee  ? 
Shall  the  mouth  be  clay  that  sang  thee  in  thy  squalor 

When  all  poets'  mouths  shall  sing  thee  ? 


FANNY  PARNELL  239 


Ah  !  the  harpings  and  the  salvos  and  the  shoutings 

Of  thy  exiled  sons  returning 

I  should  hear,  though  dead  and  mouldered,  and  the  grave 
damps 

Should  not  chill  my  bosom's  burning. 

Ah  !  the  tramp  of  feet  victorious  !  I  should  hear  them 

'Mid  the  shamrocks  and  the  mosses, 
And  my  heart  should  toss  within  the  shroud  and  quiver, 

As  a  captive  dreamer  tosses. 

I  should  turn  and  rend  the  cere  clothes  round  me, 

Giant-sinews  I  should  borrow, 
Crying,  '  O  my  brothers,  I  have  also  loved  her, 

In  her  lowliness  and  sorrow. 

'  Let  me  join  with  you  the  jubilant  procession, 

Let  me  chant  with  you  her  story  ; 
Then  contented  I  .'hall  go  back  to  the  shamrocks, 

Now  mine  eyes  have  seen  her  glory.3 


BOOK    IV 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  fills  the  most  tragic  place  in  the  Irish 
literature  of  this  century  ;  and  even  if  he  be  not  its  greatest 
poet,  at  least  he  has  only  equals,  no  superiors.  His  fame  has 
been  obscured  and  injured — in  part  by  his  own  fault,  in  part 
by  the  indiscretion  of  friends  and  admirers,  in  part  by  the 
pressure  of  inevitable  circumstance.  Born  to  unhappiness, 
dowered  with  a  melancholy  temperament  and  a  drifting  will, 
he  never  found  natural  joy  save,  like  Thomas  a  Kempis,  *  in  a 
nook  with  a  book '  and  in  the  exercise  of  his  art.  Like  sundry 
other  unhappy  poets,  he  found  joys  less  natural  and  sane  in 
opium  and  alcohol.  It  is  not  essential  for  our  present  purpose 
to  examine  the  kind,  the  extent,  the  gravity  of  his  indulgence 
in  these  methods  of  obliviousness  or  exaltation  :  the  evidence 
of  his  contemporaries  is  conflicting :  enough,  to  say  that  in 
whatever  degree  Mangan  must  share  the  reproach  of  Coleridge, 
De  Quincey,  Poe,  of  the  Scottish  Ferguson  and  Burns,  he  yet 
claims  our  compassion  rather  than  our  contempt.  His  weakness 
never  marred  the  purity,  in  all  senses,  of  his  poetry :  he  made 
no  Byron ic  parade  or  boast  of  his  own  worst  side.  From 
cradle  to  coffin  *  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own,'  and 
his  heart  always  knew  its  own  bitterness.  Infinitely  sensitive, 
of  a  fragile  and  tremulous  spirit,  the  harshness  of  the  world 
was  his  master,  and  from  the  first  he  succumbed  to  whatever 
miseries,  real  or  imagined,  came  his  way.  The  story  of  his 
life  is  a  story  of  persistent  gloom  and  grayness,  peopled  by 

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242  BOOK  IV 


phantoms  and  phantasies  of  sorrow  :  he  was  a  born  dreamer  of 
dreams,  and  passed  his  days  in  a  kind  of  penumbra.  He  was 
gentle  and  grotesque,  eccentric  and  lovable  :  but  much  of  a 
mystery  to  all  and  to  himself.  Fit  for  nothing  but  literature, 
and  passionately  enamoured  of  it,  he  was  a  desultory,  un- 
certain, capricious  writer  :  always  a  student  with  a  true  love 
of  learning,  his  knowledge  was  casual,  imperfect,  hardly  a 
scholar's.  Further,  it  was  a  part  of  his  strange  nature  to 
be  innocently  insincere,  or  inventive,  or  imaginative,  about 
himself  and  his :  there  was  '  a  deal  of  Ariel,  just  a  streak  of 
Puck '  in  his  composition,  and  he  throws  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
his  readers,  who  vainly  try  to  ascertain  the  precise  measure 
of  truth  and  actuality  in  his  personal  or  literary  statements. 
With  all  his  devotion  to  letters  and  learning,  he  was  incapable 
of  exercising  a  prolonged  and  constant  energy  :  it  was  not  in 
him  to  concentrate  and  control  his  powers.  When  he  wrote 
without  inspiration,  but  in  obedience  to  some  external  call  or 
need,  he  wrote  either  with  a  strong  and  arid  rhetoric  or  with 
a  somewhat  ghastly  air  of  mocking  merriment  and  jesting 
cynicism  :  and  so  little  could  he  command  his  imagination 
that  almost  the  whole  of  his  greatest  and  most  perfect  work 
owes  its  inception  to  the  work— often  the  inferior  work— of 
others.  The  poet  of  the  '  Dark  Rosaleen  '  is  a  great  original 
poet :  such  splendour  of  verse  is  not  translation,  but  a  new 
creation.  And  yet,  but  for  the  Gaelic  poet,  Costello  of 
Bally haunis,  Mangan  would  not  have  written  his  masterpiece. 

The  poetry  of  this  unique  man  falls  under  four  chief  heads  : 
paraphrases  or  translations  from  the  Gaelic;  those  from  the 
German,  and  sometimes  from  other  modern  languages  ;  poems 
which  profess  to  spring  from  Turkish  and  Oriental  originals ; 
poems  avowedly  and  indisputably  original.  His  collected  poems, 
of  every  description,  would  compose  a  considerable  volume  in 
point  of  size  :  and  it  would  contain 'little  that  is  of  no  value  — 
little  without  some  touch,  if  not  of  genius,  yet  assuredly  of  a 
singular  talent.  But  were  we  to  exclude  from  such  a  collection 
some  twenty  or  thirty  famous  pieces,  the  residue  would  not  be 
of  such  a  rare  and  distinguished  quality  as  entitles  a  cunning 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  243 


versifier  to  claim  the  higher  rank  of  poet.  Mangan's  great 
work  has  never  been  overpraised  :  not  so  his  less  great.  Hx 
was  an  Irishman  writing  English  verse  during  the  first  half  of 
the  century:  his  wide  and  genuine  if  straggling  culture,  his 
range  of  literary  interest,  his  technical  mastery  of  verse,  filled 
his  audience  with  a  feeling  of  novelty.  It  was  a  portent,  a 
presage,  of  an  outburst  of  Irish  poetry  in  English  verse  such 
as  had  not  before  been  heard :  and  it  is  not  unnatural  that 
Mangan's  poetry  was  received,  is  often  still  received,  with 
too  lavish  an  applause,  too  indiscriminate  a  welcome.  Again  : 
Mangan,  though  nothing  of  a  politician,  was  much  of  a 
patriot  ;  and  national  pride  tended  to  exalt  the  merits  of 
whatever  came  from  Mangan  the  accomplished,  the  specially 
inspired.  It  is  largely  a  question  of  date  and  period  :  Mangan 
was  a  pioneer,  and  became  a  source  of  inspiration.  Others 
have  entered  into  his  labours,  and  Ireland  has  borne  poets  of 
far  deeper  and  more  patient  culture,  and  of  a  technical  skill 
sometimes  not  far  beneath  his  own  at  its  finest.  The  mass  of 
Mangan's  poetry  seems  less  miraculous  and  immaculate  now 
than  it  seemed  half  a  century  ago :  then,  he  had  scarce  a 
rival ;  since  then,  he  has  had  many  and  worthy  rivals,  though 
none  has  surpassed  him.  Only  his  master-work  need  be 
considered  here,  and  our  brief  selections  illustrate  every 
aspect  of  it. 

There  are  few  who  question  the  supremacy,  among  his 
poems,  of  those  derived  from  Gaelic  sources.  Doubtless  to 
the  struggling,  starving  Irish  poet,  who  never  dreamed  of 
winning  English  praise  and  writing  for  an  English  public, 
Ireland  and  her  history  and  her  hope  were  natural  themes : 
but  patriotism  and  love  of  country  are  insufficient  to  explain 
the  poetical  excellence  of  these  poems.  Passionate  patriotism 
can  make  execrable  poetry.  Something  else  there  must  be 
to  account  for  this  superiority :  and  it  can  surely  be 
found  in  the  truth  that  to  Mangan,  essentially  the  poet  of 
dreams  and  sorrows  and  longings,  of  an  ideal  rapture  and  a 
perfect  beauty,  the  history  of  Ireland  appealed  with  a  personal 
force.  In  that  beautiful  and  tragic  history  he  found  what 

R2 


244  BOOK  IV 


profoundly  moved  him,  not  only  as  an  Irishman  who  loved 
Ireland,  but  as  the  sad  and  stricken  man  who  fed  on  dreams, 
was  haunted  by  memories,  lived  in  an  infinite  desire.  The 
laments,  the  prophecies,  the  dauntless  defiances,  the  radiant 
hopes,  in  a  word  the  various  passions  which  he  found  in  the 
history  and  literature  of  the  Gael  came  home  to  him  :  he  felt 
them  as  he  could  not  feel  the  emotions  of  German  poets.  He 
therefore  brought  to  his  Irish  versions  such  a  wealth  of 
unfeigned  emotion,  such  a  profusion  of  artistic  cunning,  as  to 
make  them  verily  the  fresh  expression  of  his  own  soul  and  the 
fine  flower  of  his  genius.  With  but  four  or  five  exceptions,  he 
leaves  aside  the  Gaelic  poetry  of  love  or  laughter,  and  fills  his 
page  with  the  cry  of  battle,  the  wail  for  the  dead,  the  dirge  of 
departed  glory.  The  note  of  sorrow — noble  and  proud  sorrow — 
appears  in  almost  all  his  Irish  poems  :  nothing  so  appealed  to 
his  sad  heart  as  tears  As  he  broods  over  the  lamentations 
of  ancient  bards,  raising  the  keen  over  Ireland  desolate  and 
derelict,  over  Irish  princes  exiled  or  dead,  over  Irish  hopes 
frustrated  and  Irish  chivalry  in  defeat,  his  own  immense 
melancholy  kindles  into  a  melancholy  of  majestic  music.  He 
transmutes  the  mourning  Irish  music  of  Owen  Ward  into 
English  verse  of  monumental  magnificence  and  monotony  in 
woe  as  he  chants  the  lament  for  the  lords  of  Tyrone  and 
Tyrconnell,  The  O'Neill  and  The  O'Donnell,  dead  exiles 
sleeping  together  in  holy  Rome  :  each  of  the  eighteen  stanzas, 
with  its  elaborate  structure,  is  like  a  funeral  march,  full  of  deep 
repeated  chords,  and  a  wailing  cry  that  pierces  up  through  the 
heavier  tones  of  sorrow.  These  poems  are  starred  with  the 
lovely  and  great  names  of  the  princes,  the  provinces,  the 
pleasant  places  of  Ireland,  vanquished,  dead,  fugitive,  ruined, 
vanished.  Where  is  Brian's  fair  palace  of  Kinkora  ?  Whither 
are  flown  the  Wild  Geese  ?  Where  is  '  the  Young  Deliverer  of 
Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan ' ?  And,  'alas,  for  the  once  proud 
people  of  Banba  ! '  Weep,  Ireland,  for  Owen  Roe  !  and  hear 
the  Banshee  crying  for  the  Knight  of  Kerry  !  Take  your  farewell 
of  Patrick  Sarsfield  !  Mourn  for  glory  gone  from  the  Castle  of 
Donegal  !  Be  sad  for  the  soul  of  O'Sullivan  Beara,  the  betrayed 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  245 


and  murdered  !  ' Through  the  long  drear  night  I  lie  awake  for 
the  sorrows  of  Inisfail,'  the  '  Mother  of  light  and  song  ! '  Thus 
run  the  greater  part  of  these  poems  :  and  the  two  master- 
pieces, which  transcend*  the  rest,  are  'Dark  Rosaleen  '  and 
'O'Hussey's  Ode  to  The  Maguire.'  The  'Dark  Rosaleen' 
ranks  with  the  great  lyrics  of  the  world  ;  it  is  one  of  the  fairest 
and  fiercest  in  its  perfection  of  imagery  and  rhythm  :  here  is 
the  chivalry  of  a  nation's  faith,  struck  of  a  sudden  into  the 
immortality  of  music.  The  '  Ode  to  The  Maguire  '  burns  with 
a  noble  ferocity  in  lines  of  the  highest  Homeric  simplicity 
and  grandeur.  Here  is  the  true  Mangan  of  greatness  and  of 
genius.  His  quieter  Irish  poems  are  less  successful,  for  all  their 
charm  :  both  '  Ellen  Bawn  '  and  '  The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire '  have 
found  better  renderings  than  his.  In  the  '  Woman  of  Three 
Cows '  Mangan  is  more  at  home  with  the  racy  sarcasm  of  his 
original.  But  the  Irish  portion  of  his  poems,  viewed  as  a 
whole,  is  that  to  which  he  brought  most  of  the  sincere  passion, 
the  artistic  instinct  and  capacity,  the  high  poetic  seriousness 
that  he  possessed ;  more  than  all  his  other  poems,  they  bear  a 
severe  and  critical  scrutiny  :  for  which  reason,  and  not  merely 
because  they  are  Irish,  we  place  them  in  the  forefront  of  his 
work. 

Next  to  these  in  importance  stand  Mangan's  poems  of  the 
East,  which  are  practically  his  own,  though  he  studied  Eastern 
poetry  in  translations,  and  was  in  part  drawn  Eastward  by  his 
favourite  Germans,  with  whom,  as  with  Byron,  Moore,  Hugo, 
Heine,  there  was  a  fashion  of  Orientalism  ;  and  he  followed 
them  in  the  imitation  of  Eastern  rhythms.  In  many  of  his 
Oriental  poems  Mangan  has  poured,  out  of  his  darkness  of  the 
shadow,  all  a  captive's  wistful  longing  for  the  sunlight,  for  the 
fragrance  of  roses,  for  the  burning  blue  :  and  also  his  half-sad$ 
half-smiling  sense  of  life's  fleetness  and  illusion.  He  loved 
the  thought  of  the  East,  and  to  indulge  in  the  dreams  of  such 
Irish  scholars  as  Vallancey  about  the  Oriental  origin  of  the 
Gael  :  he  loved,  as  FitzGerald  loved,  an  Orient  largely  of  his  own 
creation.  What  Davis  has  called  Mangan's  *  perfect  mastery  of 
versification  :  his  flexibility  of  passion,  from  loneliest  grief  to 


246  BOOK  IV 


the  maddest  humour,'  appear  profusely  in  these  glowing  poems 
attributed  to  fictitious  Turks  and  impossible  .Persians.  Mangan, 
who  loved  to  dream  of  colour  and  light  and  golden  visions,  is 
brilliantly  felicitous  in  some  of  these  pieces  :  but  he  is  more 
nobly  inspired,  and  not  less  glowingly,  when  he  sings  of  the 
'  Little  Black  Rose '  (the  Roisin  DubK)  than  when  he  moralises 
upon  the  roses  of  Shiraz,  Yet,  certainly,  these  ardent  poems 
of  the  East,  with  their  voluptuous  music  and  imagination, 
their  wise  and  trite  and  venerable  philosophy,  their  vigour  of 
dramatic  movement,  constitute  Mangan's  second  glory :  they 
are  of  greater  value  than  all  but  the  very  finest  things  ih  his 
vast  ANTHOLOGIA  GERMANICA.  There  is  power  of  a  rare  kind  in 
the  '  Karamanian  Exile,'  the  *  Wail  and  Warning  of  the  Three 
Khalandeers,'  the  '  Time  of  the  Roses,'  the  «  Howling  Song 
of  Al  Mohara,'  the  '  Time  of  the  Barmecides.'  Even  some 
of  Mangan's  least  unfortunate  fooling  is  done  in  Oriental 
disguise. 

The  ANTHOLOGIA  GERMANICA,  with  which  are  grouped 
Mangan's  renderings  or  adaptations  from  sundry  other  modern 
tongues,  constitutes  the  larger  part  of  his  work.  He  was  born 
at  a  time  when  German  poetry  and  philosophy  were  receiving 
due  attention  at  the  hands  of  English  writers,  and  his  receptive 
literary  temperament  was  influenced  by  that  circumstance : 
further,  much  German  sentiment  of  romanticism,  of  reverie,  of 
personal  passion,  appealed  to  him  with  singular  force.  Yet, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  his  work  in  this  kind  is  of  little  more 
than  a  fine  and  interesting  mediocrity  :  and  for  the  most  part 
it  is  at  its  best  when  he  frankly  deserts  his  originals  to 
embroider  or  embellish  them  with  beauties  of  his  own  devising. 
He  is  happiest  when  concerned  with  poets  not  of  the  first 
order:  with  Schiller,  Riickert,  Korner,  Freiligrath,  Uhland, 
Burger,  rather  than  with  Goethe  and  Heine.  Riickert,  in 
especial,  called  forth  his  great  gifts  of  rhythmical  beauty  :  but 
in  the  main  we  must  lament  the  hard  necessities,  material  and 
spiritual,  which  led  him  to  this  task  of  echoing  or  improving  a 
mass  of  poetry  often  poor  in  quality  and  ephemeral.  The 
chief  value  of  this  collection  lies  in  its  copious  illustration 


JAMES  CLARENCE   MANGAN  247 

of  Mangan's  technical  excellence  in  his  art,  of  his  lyrical 
dexterity  :  but  twice  or  thrice  does  it  reveal  him  flushed  and 
enraptured  with  the  poetic  passion  of  his  work  inspired  from 
Irish  sources.  Mangan's  wholly  original  poems,  like  those 
taken  from  or  suggested  by  German  or  Oriental  literatue, 
would  hardly  have  entitled  him  to  a  high  rank  among  poets  : 
a  small  portion  of  them  is  admirable,  a  larger  portion  has 
a  certain  effectiveness  and  power,  the  greatest  portion  is 
stiff  or  stilted  with  a  forced  rhetoric — the  rhetoric  of  the 
poet  writing  upon  political  occasion,  who  has  declamation  at 
his  command,  but  scant  beauty  of  imagination.  Of  the 
original  poems,  the  most  famous  and  most  moving  is  the 
terrible  'Nameless  One':  a  burst  of  Byronism  more  pro- 
foundly sincere  than  all  but  a  very  few  of  Byron's  most 
embittered  dirges  over  his  own  wretched  soul.  Most  drearily 
imaginative  also  is  '  Siberia,'  a  lyric  of  despair  and  dereliction  : 
and  in  some  other  pieces  there  is  a  strain  of  felicitous 
melancholy,  a  true  pathetic  touch.  It  is,  however,  not  to  be 
denied  that  in  Mangan  we  have  a  poet  hampered,  let  and 
hindered,  by  inborn  physical  and  spiritual  sensitiveness ;  a 
visionary  seldom  capable  of  arresting  his  fairest  visions  ;  a 
self-tormentor  void  of  that  interior  peace  whence  comes  the 
assured  impulse  of  poetry.  His  perturbed  and  vagrant  mind 
wandered  in  dry  places  and  in  the  dark,  longing  vainly  for 
consolation  and  light  :  he  could  always  write  mockingly, 
spasmodically,  forcibly,  fiercely,  but  only  at  rare  seasons 
beautifully.  Shrinking  from  the  world,  cursed  with  real  and 
imagined  curses,  he  was  never  '  master  of  his  fate  '  nor  '  captain 
of  his  soul ' :  and  poetry,  so  great  a  solace  to  many  poets  of 
unhappiness,  visited  him  from  regions  not  of  gladness  but  of 
gloom.  Ireland  alone,  with  her  mingling  of  misery  and  heroic 
pride,  woke  in  hiin  the  joy  of  poetry  and  the  passion  of  art 
triumphant. 

Few  poets  more  imperatively  demand  to  have  their  lives  con- 
sidered in  any  estimate  of  their  poems.  Over  Mangan's  life 
is  writ  large  the  inscription  of  hopelessness  and  incapacity  to 
be  strong  :  he  let  go  the  helm,  to  drift  through  life  and  through 


248  BOOK  IV 


the  worlds  of  poetry,  metaphysics,  curious  lore  of  many  kinds, 
finding  no   anchorage  in   any   harbour.     He   squandered  his 
power  and  mastery  over  verse  upon  matter  mediocre  or  worse  ; 
and  even  that  in  a  desultory,  capricious  fashion,  as  the  humour 
of  the  hour  took  him.     An  alien  in  the  world,  he  had  desires, 
but  no   ambitions  ;   he  cared  nothing  for   literary  fame,  and 
everything  for  some  indefinable  ideal  with  which  his  daily  life 
was  in  fearful  contrast.     Before  his  latter  years  he  knew  no 
positive  definite  suffering  but  such  as  a  firm  will  could  have 
overcome  ;    but,  without  incurring   Dante's  curse  upon  those 
who  'wilfully  live  in  sadness,'  he  would  seem  from  the  first 
to  have  persuaded  himself  that  the  valley  of  the  shadow  was 
to  be  his  way  through  life.     Hence  the  imperfection,  the  con- 
scious carelessness,  that  mark  so  much  of  his,  work  ;   hence 
his  content  to  earn  his  bread  by  work  comparatively  unworthy 
of  his  genius,  though  he  might  have  earned  it  by  worthier 
labours.     It  was  not  worth  while — what  did  it  matter  ?     That 
was  his  attitude  ;  and  so,  dreaming  his  unattainable  and  inex- 
pressible dreams,  he  resigned  into  the  hands  of  Fate  and  Chance 
both  his  self-control  and  the  control  of  his  art.    Words,  rhymes, 
rhythms,  were  always  ready  at  his  call,  and  he  fashioned  of 
them  things  ingenious,  things  betraying  infinite  resource  ;  the 
ability  to  create  by  their  means  things  of  the  highest  beauty, 
unspoiled  by  freak  or  whim,  undulled  by  conventional  rhetoric, 
things  poetically  pure,  was  his  but  once  and  again.     It  would 
be  cruel  to  judge  such  a  man  by  anything  but  his  supreme 
achievements  ;  to  exalt  unduly  his  lesser  achievements  is  to 
endanger  the  just  glory  of  the  poet  at  his  loftiest  and  loveliest 
height.     Mangan  wrote  much  that  must  always  delight  lovers 
of  poetry  and  of  Mangan,  which  is  yet  but  a  small  part  of  his 
title  to  greatness  ;  he  wrote  a  little  which  is  a  possession  for 
evermore  of  all  who  '  love  the  highest  when  they  see  it.'     It 
was  as  cruel  as  uncritical  to  forget  that  Mangan  was  a  weak- 
ling, lovable  and  to  be  compassionated,  whose  piteous  necessities 
found  expression  in  writings  often  unvalued  by  himself  and 
not  meant  for  remembrance.     Excellent  dexterities  of  rhyme, 
audacities  of  phrase,  masteries  of  metre,  though  testifying  to 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  249 

great  accomplishment,  do  not  testify  to  anything  more  ;  and 
those  who  confound  Mangan's  best  with  his  second-best  verse 
do  him  a  grave  disservice.  Non  tali  auxilio  nee  defensoribus 
istis  will  Mangan  maintain  his  station  and  his  title  to  great- 
ness. Happily,  in  this  case,  criticism  and  patriotism  can  go 
hand-in-hand  :  Mangan's  flight  is  highest,  his  music  is  noblest, 
when  ancient  Ireland  speaks  to  him  of  her  glories,  her  sorrows, 
her  hopes.  He  is  the  poet  of  much  else  that  is  imperishable ; 
but  above  all  he  is  the  poet  of  a  poem  foremost  among,  the 
world's  poems  of  inspired  patriotism.  It  were  enough  for 
Mangan's  fame  that  he  is  the  poet  of  the  '  Dark  Rosaleen.' 

LIONEL  JOHNSON. 

James  Mangan,  who  for  literary  purposes  assumed  the  name  of  Clarence, 
was  born  in  Dublin  upon  May  I,  1803.  His  father  was  a  tradesman, 
of  irascible  temper,  and  of  improvident  ways  which  impoverished  the 
family.  Before  the  age  of  fifteen  Mangan  was  educated  in  various 
schools,  at  one  of  which,  thanks  to  a  learned  priest,  he  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  multifarious  linguistic  scholarship.  At  the  age  of  fifteen 
he  was  put  to  a  scrivener's  office,  where  he  remained  for  seven  years  :  he 
then  served  in  an  attorney's  office  for  three  more.  These  ten  years, 
though  his  accounts  of  them  may  be  in  some  measure  exaggerated,  w^re  a 
time  of  uncongenial  drudgery.  Upon  finally  quitting  this  kind  of  employ- 
ment he  entered  upon  an  erratic  and  uncertain  literary  life  :  the  only  posts 
that  he  ever  held,  and  that  for  no  longtime,  being  successively  a  post  in  the 
Ordnance  Survey  Office,  through  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Petrie,  and  in  the 
Library  of  Trinity  College,  through  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Todd.  Eventually, 
thanks  to  the  growth  upon  him  of  incorrigible  irregularities  of  life,  about 
which  the  evidence  of  his  contemporaries  and  surviving  friends  is  conflict- 
ing, he  was  cast  upon  the  world  to  live  by  his  pen.  From  first  to  last  all 
his  published  works  appeared  in  Dublin  magazines  and  journals  :  we  need 
only  mentitn  The  Dublin  University  Magazine,  The  Nation,  and  The 
Dublin  Penny  Journal,  The  one  collection  of  his  work  that  appeared  in 
his  lifetime  is  the  ANTHOLOGIA  GERMANICA,  published  in  1845.  His 
latter  life  was  miserable  and  precarious  ;  and  in  1849  ne  died  in  the  Meath 
Hospital,  of  cholera — as  seems  probable  ;  of  starvation  and  exhaustion,  as 
some  say — aged  forty-six.  He  was  buried  in  Glasnevin  Cemetery.  His  life 
jn  its  details  is  hard  to  follow  and  ascertain  ;  his  own  statements  are  clearly 
coloured  by  his  imaginative  habit  of  mind,  which  itself  was  affected  by  the 
use  of  stimulants  or  narcotics,  or  both  :  the  evidence  of  those  who  knew 
him  is  discordant.  But  that  life,  whatever  be  the  precise  truth  concerning 


250  BOOK  IV 


it,  was  wholly  lived  in  Dublin,  and,  sad  though  it  were,  was  not  marked  by 
incidents  or  adventures  of  a  notable  kind.  Its  uniform  sadness  is  perhaps 
its  one  sure  and  clear  fact.  After  his  death  there  appeared  POETS  AND 
POETRY  OF  MUNSTER,  translations  edited  by  John  O'Daly,  in  1850 ;  in 
1859  the  celebrated  John  Mitchel  published  an  edition  of  the  POEMS, 
with  a  fine  and  generous  introduction  ;  in  1884  the  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan, 
Mangan's  friend  and  benefactor,  issued  ESSAYS  IN  P.ROSE  AND  VERSE  ; 
in  1897  Miss  Guiney  published  her  SELECTIONS  from  the  poems,  and  in 
the  same  year  Mr.  D.  J.  O'Donoghue  published  a  probably  final  LIFE  AND 
WRITINGS.  There  is  no  complete  edition  of  Mangan's  works,  nor  is  such 
a  thing  desirable  ;  the  volumes  here  mentioned  contain  all,  perhaps  more 
than  all,  that  is  required  for  an  appreciation  of  his  genius  and  a  knowledge 
of  his  life.—  L.  J. 

DARK  ROSALEEN 

FROM  THE    IRISH 

OH  !  my  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope 

Upon  the  ocean  green, 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  hills  and  through  dales 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake  ; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
Oh  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  251 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro  do  I  move. 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon*, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal  : 
Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight's  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 


252  BOOK  JV 


I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh  1  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Oh  !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun- peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 


A  VISION  OF  CONNAUGHT  IN  THE  THIRTEENTH  CENTURY 

Et  moi,  j'ai  6te"  aussi  en  Arcadie.' 

I  WALKED  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  morn  ; 
The  Sun,  with  wond'rous  excess  of  light 
Shone  down  and  glanced 

Over  seas  of  corn, 

And  lustrous  gardens  a-left  and  right. 
Even  in  the  clime 
Of  resplendent  Spain 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  253 

Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land ; 
But  it  was  the  time, 

'Twas  in  the  reign, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

Anon  stood  nigh 

By  my  side  a  man 
Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime. 
Him  queried  I, 

*  Oh,  my  Lord  and  Khan, 
What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time?1 
When  he—'  The  clime 
Is  a  clime  to  praise  ; 

The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland ; 
And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days, 
Of  Cdhal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  ! ' 

Then  I  saw  thrones, 
And  circling  fires, 

And  a  dome  rose  near  me,  as  by  a  spell, 
Whence  flowed  the  tones 

Of  silver  lyres, 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  swell ; 
And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  an  angel-band — 
'  It  is  now  the  time, 

These  be  the  years, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  ! ' 

I  sought  the  hall, 

And,  behold  !  a  change 
From  light  to  darkness,  from  joy  to  woe  ! 
Kings,  nobles,  all, 

Looked  aghast  and  strange  ; 
The  minstrel-group  sate  in  dumbest  show ! 
Had  some  great  crime 
Wrought  this  dread  amaze, 


254  BOOK  IV 


This  terror  ?     None  seemed  to  understand  ! 
'Twas  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

I  again  walked  forth  ! 

But  lo  !  the  sky 

Showed  fleckt  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 
Glared  from  the  north, 

And  there  stood  on  high, 
Amid  his  shorn  beams,  A  SKELETON  ! 

It  was  by  the  stream 

Of  the  castled  Maine, 
One  autumn  eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land, 
That  I  dreamed  this  dream 

Of  the  time  and  reign 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  ! 

LAMENT  FOR  THE  PRINCES  OF  TIR-OWEN  AND  TIRCONNELL 

FROM  THE  IRISH 

O  WOMAN  of  the  Piercing  Wail, 

Who  mournest  o'er  yon  mound  of  clay 

With  sigh  and  groan, 
Would  God  thou  wert  among  the  Gael  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  then  from  day  to  day 

Weep  thus  alone. 

'Twere  long  before,  around  a  grave 
In  green  Tirconnell,  one  could  find 

This  loneliness  ; 

Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave, 
Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne'er  have  pined 
Companionless. 

Beside  the  wave,  in  Donegal, 

In  Antrim's  glen,  or  fair  Dromore, 

Or  Killillee, 

Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall 
At  Assaroe,  near  Erna's  shore, 
This  could  not  be. 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  255 

On  Berry's  plains — in  rich  Drumcliff — 
Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renowned 

In  olden  years, 

No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 
Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 
Fresh  floods  of  tears  ! 

Oh  no  ! — from  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 
From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls, 

From  Lissadill, 
Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor. 

One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 

To  Tara's  hill ; 

And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 
And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home 

On  Leitrim's  plains, 
And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide, 
And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 
And  swell  thy  strains  ! 

Oh  !  horse's  hoofs  would  trample  down 
The  mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint 

Was  crucified. 

From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town, 
One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint, 

Would  echo  wide. 

There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween, 
One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands 

For  museful  thought, 
So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen 

Would  cry  aloud,  and  clap  their  hands, 
All  woe-distraught  ! 

Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 
Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 

O'Donnell  Roe. 

Three  royal  youths,  alas  !  are  gone, 
Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 
For  Erin's  woe  ! 


256  BOOK  7K 


Ah  !  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 

The  names  these  noteless  burial  stones 

Display  to  view, 

Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed, 
Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 
Resound  anew  ! 

The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were  sprung  from  Hugh,  high  Prince  and  Lord 

Of  Aileach's  lands  ; 
Thy  noble  brothers,  justly  dear, 
Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 

By  Ulster's  bands. 

Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  Time  . 
Could  domicile  Decay  or  house 

Decrepitude  ! 

They  passed  from  Earth  ere  Manhood's  prime, 
Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows 
Or  chill  their  blood. 

And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears, 

That  knows  their  source  ? 
O'Donnell,  Dunnasana's  chief, 
Cut  off  amid  his  vernal  years, 

Lies  here  a  corse 

Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tirconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 

In  deep  despair— 

For  valour,  truth,  and  comely  bloom, 

For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns, 

A  peerless  pair. 

Oh  !  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third, 
The  Lord  of  Mourn e,  O'Niall's  son, 

Their  mate  in  death — 
A  prince  in  look,  in  deed  and  word — 
Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 
The  field  their  breath  ; 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  257 


Oh  !  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain, 
There  would  not  be  a  town  or  clan 

From  shore  to  sea 

But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  slain, 
Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann 
Of  jubilee. 

When  high  the  shout  of  battle  rose 

On  fields  where  Freedom's  torch  still  burned 

Through  Erin's  gloom, 
If  one,  if  barely  one  of  those 
Were  slain,  all  Ulster  would  have  mourned 

The  hero's  doom  ! 
If  at  Athboy,  where  hosts  of  brave 
Ulidian  horsemen  sank  beneath    • 

The  shock  of  spears, 
Young  Hugh  O'Neill  had  found  a  grave, 
Long  must  the  north  have  wept  his  death 
With  heart-wrung  tears  ! 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballachmyre, 
The  Lord  of  Mourne  had  met,  thus  young, 

A  warrior's  fate, 

In  vain  would  such  as  those  desire 
To  mourn,  alone,  the  champion  sprung 

From  Niall  the  Great ! 
No  marvel  this — for  all  the  dead, 
Heaped  on  the  field,  pile  over  pile, 

At  Mullach-brack, 
Were  scarce  an  eric  for  his  head, 

If  Death  had  stayed  his  footsteps  while 
On  victory's  track  ! 

If  on  the  Day  of  Hostages 

The  fruit  had  from  the  parent  bough 

Been  rudely  torn 

In  sight  of  Munster's  bands  — Mac- Nee's — 

Such  blow  the  blood  of  Conn,  I  trow, 

Could  ill  have  borne. 


258  BOOK 


If  on  the  day  of  Balloch-boy, 
Some  arm  had  laid,  by  foul  surprise, 

The  chieftain  low, 
Even  our  victorious  shout  of  joy 

Would  soon  give  place  to  rueful  cries 
And  groans  of  woe  ! 

If  on  the  day  the  Saxon  host 

Were  forced  to  fly — a  day  so  great 

For  Ashanee — 
The  Chief  had  been  untimely  lost, 

Our  conquering  troops  should  moderate 

Their  mirthful  glee. 
There  would  not  lack  on  Lifford's  day, 
From  Galway,  from  the  glens  of  Boyle, 

From  Limerick's  towers, 
A  marshalled  file,  a  long  array, 
Of  mourners  to  bedew  the  soil 
With  tears  in  showers  ! 

If  on  the  day  a  sterner  fate 
Compelled  his  flight  from  Athenree, 

His  blood  had  flowed, 
What  numbers  all  disconsolate 

Would  come  unasked,  and  share  with  thee 

Affliction's  load  ! 
If  Derry's  crimson  field  had  seen 

His  life-blood  offered  up,  though  'twere 

On  Victory's  shrine, 
A  thousand  cries  would  swell  the  keen^ 
A  thousand  voices  of  despair 
Would  echo  thine  ! 

Oh  1  had  the  fierce  Dalcassian  swarm, 
That  bloody  night  on  Fergus'  banks, 

But  slain  our  Chief ; 
When  rose  his  camp  in  wild  alarm, 
How  would  the  triumph  of  his  ranks 
Be  dashed  with  grief  ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  259 


How  would  the  troops  of  Murbach  mourn, 
If  on  the  Curlew  Mountains'  day — 

Which  England  rued — 
Some  Saxon  hand  had  left  them  lorn  : 
By  shedding  there,  amid  the  fray, 
Their  prince's  blood  ! 

Red  would  have  been  our  warriors'  eyes, 
Had  Roderick  found  on  Sligo's  field 

A  gory  grave. 

No  Northern  Chief  would  soon  arise, 
So  sage  to  guide,  so  strong  to  shield, 

So  swift  to  save. 

Long  would  Leith-Cuinn  have  wept  if  Hugh 
Had  met  the  death  he  oft  had  dealt 

Among  the  foe  ; 

But,  had  our  Roderick  fallen  too, 
All  Erin  must,  alas  !  have  felt 
The  deadly  blow. 

What  do  I  say?     Ah,  woe  is  me — 
Already  we  bewail  in  vain 

Their  fatal  fall  ! 
And  Erin,  once  the  Great  and  Free, 

Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chain, 

And  iron  thrall  ! 

Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell,  dry 
Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 

Thy  heart  aside  ; 
For  Adam's  race  is  born  to  die, 
And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 
Mocks  human  pride. 

Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 
Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay  : 

But  on  thy  knees 
Uplift  thy  soul  to  God  alone, 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way, 
As  He  decrees. 

s  2 


260  BOOK  IV 


Embrace  the  faithful  Crucifix, 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 

Thy  Saviour  trod  ; 
Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope  and  worldly  care 
Its  groans  to  God. 

And  Thou,  O  mighty  Lord  !  whose  ways 
Are  far  above  our  feeble  minds 

To  understand  ; 

Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  days, 
And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 

Our  fallen  land  ! 

Look  down  upon  our  dreary  state — 
And  through  the  ages  that  may  still 

Roll  sadly  on, 

Watch  thou  o'er  hapless  Erin's  fate, 
And  shield  at  least  from  darker  ill 
The  blood  of  Conn  ! 


THE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAY 

'TWAS  a  balmy  summer  morning, 

Warm  and  early, 
Such  as  only  June  bestows  ; 
Everywhere  the  earth  adorning, 

Dews  lay  pearly 
In  the  lily-bell  and  rose. 
Up  from  each  green  leafy  bosk  and  hollow 

Rose  the  blackbird's  pleasant  lay, 
And  the  soft  cuckoo  was  sure  to  follow — 
'Twas  the  Dawning  of  the  Day. 

Through  the  perfumed  air  the  golden 

Bees  flew  round  me, 
Bright  fish  dazzled  from  the  sea  ; 
Till  medreamt  some  fairy  olden 
World  spell-bound  me 
In  a  trance  of  witcherie. 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  261 


Steeds  pranced  round  anon  with  stateliest  housings, 

Bearing  riders  prankt  in  rich  array, 
Like  flushed  revellers  after  wine  carousings — 

Twas  the  Dawning  of  the  Day. 

Then  a  strain  of  song  was  chanted, 

And  the  lightly 

Floating  sea-nymphs  drew  anear. 
,     Then  again  the  shore  seemed  haunted 

By  hosts  brightly 

Clad,  and  wielding  shield  and  spear  ! 
Then  came  battle  shouts,  an  onward  rushing — 

Swords,  and  chariots,  and  a  phantom  fray  : 
Then  all  vanished.     The  warm  skies  were  blushing 
In  the  Dawning  of  the  Day. 

Cities  girt  with  glorious  gardens, 

Whose  immortal 
Habitants  in  robes  of  light 
Stood,  methpught,  as  angel-wardens 

Nigh  each  portal, 
Now  arose  to  daze  my  sight. 
Eden  spread  around,  revived  and  blooming, 

When  lo  !  as  I  gazed,  all  passed  away — 
I  saw  but  black  rocks  and  billows  looming 
In  the  dim  chill  Dawn  of  Day. 

KATHALEEN  NY-HOULAHAN  l 

A  JACOBITE   RELIC— FROM   THE    IRISH 

LONG  they  pine  in  weary  woe— the  nobles  of  our  land — 
Long  they  wander  to  and  fro,  proscribed,  alas  !  and  banned  ; 
Feastless,  houseless,  altarless,  they  bear  the  exile's  brand, 

But  their  hope  is  in  the  coming-to  of  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan. 

Think  not  her  a  ghastly  hag,  too  hideous  to  be  seen  ; 
Call  her  not  unseemly  names,  our  matchless  Kathaleen  ; 
Young  she  is,  and  fair  she  is,  and  would  be  crowned  a  queen, 
Were  the  king's  son  at  home  here  with  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan. 


1  One  of  the  numerous  poetic  names  for  Ireland. 


262  BOOK  IV 


Sweet  and  mild  would  look  her  face — Oh  !  none  so  sweet  and  mild — 
Could  she  crush  the  foes  by  whom  her  beauty  is  reviled  ; 
Woollen  plaids  would  grace  herself  and  robes  of  silk  her  child, 
If  the  king's  son  were  living  here  with  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan. 

Sore  disgrace  it  is  to  see  the  Arbitress  of  thrones 
Vassal  to  a  Saxoneen  of  cold  and  sapless  bones  ! 
Bitter  anguish  wrings  our  souls— with  heavy  sighs  and  groans 
We  wait  the  Young  Deliverer  of  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan. 

Let  us  pray  to  Him  who  holds  life's  issues  in  His  hands, 
Him  who  formed  the  mighty  globe,  with  all  its  thousand  lands  : 
Girding  them  with  sea  and  mountains,  rivers  deep,  and  strands, 
To  cast  a  look  of  pity  upon  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan. 

He  who  over  sands  and  waves  led  Israel  along — 
He  who  fed,  with  heavenly  bread,  that  chosen  tribe  and  throng  ; 
He  who  stood  by  Moses  when  his  foes  were  fierce  and  strong, 
May  He  show  forth  His  might  in  saving  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan  ! 

THE  WOMAN  OF  THREE  Cows 

FROM  THE   IRISH 

0  WOMAN   of  Three   Cows,   agra  \   don't  let  your  tongue  thus 

rattle  ! 
Oh,  don't  be  saucy,  don't  be  stiff,  because  you  may  have  cattle. 

1  have  seen  — and,  here's  my  hand  to  you,  I  only  say  what's  true — 
A  many  a  one  with  twice  your  stock  not  half  so  proud  as  you. 

Good  luck  to  you,  don't  scorn  the  poor,  and  don't  be  their  despiser  ; 
For  worldly  wealth  soon  melts  away,  and  cheats  the  very  miser  ; 
And  death  soon  strips  the  proudest  wreath  from  haughty  human 

brows — 
Then  don't  be  stiff,  and  don't  be  proud,  good  Woman  of  Three 

Cows. 

See  where  Momonia's  heroes  lie,  proud  Owen  Mor's  descendants. 
Tis  they  that  won  the  glorious  name,  and  had  the  grand  atten- 
dants ; 

If  they  were  forced  to  bow  to  Fate,  as  every  mortal  bows,     * 
Can  you  be  proud,  can  you  be  stiff,  my  Woman  of  Three  Cows  ? 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  263 


The  brave  sons  of  the  Lord  of  Clare,  they  left  the  land  to  mourning  ; 
Mavrone  \  for  they  were  banished,  with  no  hope  of  their  returning. 
Who  knows  in  what  abodes  of  want  those  youths  were  driven  to 

house  ? 
Yet  you  can  give  yourself  these  airs,  O  Woman  of  Three  Cows. 

Oh,  think  of  Donnel  of  the  Ships,  the  Chief  whom  nothing  daunted, 
See  how  he  fell  in  distant  Spain  unchronicled,  unchanted  ; 
He  sleeps,  the  great  O'Sullivan,  where  thunder  cannot  rouse — 
Then  ask  yourself,  should  you  be  proud,  good  Woman  of  Three 
Cows? 

O'Ruark,  Maguire,  those  souls  of  fire,  whose  names  are  shrined  in 

story  : 
Think  how  their  high  achievements  once  made  Erin's  greatest 

glory. 
Yet  now  their  bones  lie  mouldering  under  weeds  and  cypress 

boughs — 
And  so,  for  all  your  pride,  will  yours,  O  Woman  of  Three  Cows. 

Th'  O'Carrols,  also,  famed  when  .fame  was  only  for  the  boldest, 
Rest  in  forgotten  sepulchres  with  Erin's  best  and  oldest ; 
Yet  who  so  great  as  they  of  yore  in  battle  or  carouse  ? 
Just  think  of  that,  and  hide  your  head,  good  Woman   of  Three 
Cows. 

Your  neighbour's  poor  ;  and  you,  it  seems,  are  big  with  vain  ideas, 
Because,  inagh  \  you've  got  three  cows — one  more,  I  see,  than  she 

has; 

That  tongue  of  yours  wags  more  at  times  than  charity  allows  ; 
But  if  you're  strong,  be  merciful — great  Woman  of  Three  Cows. 

AVRAN 

Now,  there  you  go  ;  you  still,  of  course,  keep  up  your  scornful 

bearing, 

And  I'm  too  poor  to  hinder  you  ;  but,  by  the  cloak  I'm  wearing, 
If  I  had  but  four  cows  myself,  even  though  you  were  my  spouse, 
I'd  thwack  you  well,  to  cure  your  pride,  my  Woman  of  Three  Cows. 


264  BOOK  IV 


THE  KARAMANIAN  EXILE 

I  SEE  thee  ever  in  my  dreams, 

Karaman  ! 
Thy  hundred  hills,  thy  thousand  streams, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
As  when  thy  gold-bright  morning  gleams, 
As  when  the  deepening  sunset  seams 
With  lines  of  light  thy  hills  and  streams, 

Karaman  ! 
So  thou  loomest  on  my  dreams, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 

The  hot  bright  plains,  the  sun,  the  skies, 

Karaman  ! 
Seem  death-black  marble  to  mine  eyes, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
I  turn  from  summer's  blooms  and  dyes  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  thou  dost  arise 
In  welcome  glory  to  my  eyes, 

Karaman  ! 
In  thee  my  life  of  life  yet  lies, 

Karaman  ! 

Thou  still  art  holy  in  mine  eyes, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 

Ere  my  fighting  years  were  come, 

Karaman  ! 
Troops  were  few  in  Erzerome, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
Their  fiercest  came  from  Erzerome, 
They  came  from  Ukhbar's  palace  dome, 
They  dragged  me  forth  from  thee,  my  home, 

Karaman  ! 
Thee,  my  own,  my  mountain  home, 

Karaman  ! 

In  life  and  death,  my  spirit's  home, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  265 


Oh,  none  of  all  my  sisters  ten, 

Karaman  ! 
Loved  like  me  my  fellow-men, 

Karaman  ! 

I  was  mild  as  milk  till  then, 
I  was  soft  as  silk  till  then  ; 
Now  my  breast  is  as  a  den, 

Karaman  ! 
Foul  with  blood  and  bones  of  men, 

Karaman  ! 

With  blood  and  bones  of  slaughtered  men, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  \ 

My  boyhood's  feelings  newly  born, 

Karaman  ! 
Withered  like  young  flowers  uptorn, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
And  in  their  stead  sprang  weed  and  thorn  ; 
What  once  I  loved  now  moves  my  scorn  ; 
My  burning  eyes  are  dried  to  horn, 

Karaman  ! 
I  hate  the  blessed  light  of  morn, 

Karaman  ! 

It  maddens  me,  the  face  of  morn, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 


The  Spahi  wears  a  tyrant's  chain, 

Karaman  ! 
But  bondage  worse  than  this  remains, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
His  heart  is  black  with  million  stains  : 
Thereon,  as  on  Kaf  s  blasted  plains, 
Shall  never  more  fall  dews  and  rains, 

Karaman  ! 
Save  poison-dews  and  bloody  rains, 

Karaman  ! 

Hell's  poison-dews  and  bloody  rains, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 


266  BOOK  IV 


But  life  at  worst  must  end  ere  long, 

Karaman  ! 
Azreel  avengeth  every  wrong, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
Of  late  my  thoughts  rove  more  among 
Thy  fields  ;  o'ershadowing  fancies  throng 
My  mind,  and  texts  of  bodeful  song, 

Karaman  ! 
Azreel  is  terrible  and  strong, 

Karaman  ! 

His  lightning  sword  smites  all  ere  long, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 

There's  care  to-night  in  Ukhbar's  halls, 

Karaman  ! 
There's  hope,  too,  for  his  trodden  thralls, 

Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 
What  lights  flash  red  along  your  walls  ? 
Hark  !  hark  ! — the  muster-trumpet  calls  !• 
I  see  the  sheen  of  spears  and  shawls, 

Karaman  ! 
The  foe  !  the  foe  ! — they  scale  the  walls, 

Karaman  ! 

To-night  Murad  or  Ukhbar  falls, 
Karaman  !  O  Karaman  ! 


THE  TIME  OF  THE  BARMECIDES 

MY  eyes  are  filmed,  my  beard  is  grey, 

I  am  bowed  with  the  weight  of  years  ; 
I  would  I  were  stretched  in  my  bed  of  clay 

With  my  long-lost  Youth's  compeers  ! 
For  back  to  the  past,  though  the  thought  brings  woe, 

My  memory  ever  glides — 
To  the  old,  old  time,  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides  ! 
To  the  old,  old  time,  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides  ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGA N  267 


Then  youth  was  mine,  and  a  fierce  wild  will 

And  an  iron  arm  in  war, 
And  a  fleet  foot  high  upon  I  shikar's  hill, 

When  the  watch-lights  glimmered  afar, 
And  a  barb  as  fiery  as  any  I  know 

That  Khoord  or  Beddaween  rides, 
Ere  my  friends  lay  low — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 
Ere  my  friends  lay  low — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

One  golden  goblet  illumed  my  board, 

One  silver  dish  was  there  ; 
At  hand  my  tried  Karamanian  sword 

Lay  always  bright  and  bare. 
For  those  were  the  days  when  the  angry  blow 

Supplanted  the  word  that  chides — 
When  hearts  could  glow — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 
When  hearts  could  glow — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Through  city  and  desert  my  mates  and  I 

Were  free  to  rove  and  roam, 
Our  diapered  canopy  the  deep  of  the  sky 

Or  the  roof  of  the  palace  dome  — 
Oh  !  ours  was  that  vivid  life  to  and  fro 

Which  only  sloth  derides — 
Men  spent  Life  so,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 
Men  spent  Life  so,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

I  see  rich  Bagdad  once  again, 
With  its  turrets  of  Moorish  mould, 

And  the  Kailif  s  twice  five  hundred  men, 
Whose  binishes  flamed  with  gold  ; 

I  call  up  many  a  gorgeous  show 
Which  the  Pall  of  Oblivion  hides— 


268  BOOK  IV 


All  passed  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 
With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 

All  passed  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 
With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

But  mine  eye  is  dim,  and  my  beard  is  grey, 

And  I  bend  with  the  weight  of  years — 
May  I  soon  go  down  to  the  House  of  Clay, 

Where  slumber  my  Youth's  compeers  ! 
For  with  them  and  the  Past,  though  the  thought 
wakes  woe, 

My  memory  ever  abides  ; 
And  I  mourn  for  the  times  gone  long  ago — 

For  the  times  of  the  Barmecides  ! 
I  mourn  for  the  times  gone  long  ago, 

For  the  times  of  the  Barmecides. 

SIBERIA 

IN  Siberia's  wastes 

The  ice-wind's  breath 
Woundeth  like  the  toothed  steel. 
Lost  Siberia  doth  reveal 

Only  blight  and  death. 

Blight  and  death  alone. 

No  Summer  shines. 
Night  is  interblent  with  Day. 
In  Siberia's  wastes  alway 

The  blood  blackens,  the  heart  pines. 

In  Siberia's  wastes 

No  tears  are  shed, 
For  they  freeze  within  the  brain. 
Nought  is  felt  but  dullest  pain, 

Pain  acute,  yet  dead  ; 

Pain  as  in  a  dream, 

When  years  go  by 
Funeral-paced,  yet  fugitive — 
When  man  lives  and  doth  not  live 

Doth  not  live — nor  die. 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  269 


In  Siberia's  wastes 

Are  sands  and  rocks. 
Nothing  blooms  of  green  or  soft, 
But  the  snowpeaks  rise  aloft 

And  the  gaunt  ice-blocks. 

And  the  exile  there 

Is  one  with  those  ; 
They  are  part,  and  he  is  part, 
For  the  sands  are  in  his  heart, 

And  the  killing  snows. 

Therefore  in  those  wastes 

None  curse  the  Czar  ; 
Each  man's  tongue  is  cloven  by 
The  North  Blast,  who  heweth  nigh 

With  sharp  scimitar. 

And  such  doom  each  drees, 

Till,  hunger-gnawn 

And  cold  slain,  he  at  length  sinks  there, 
Yet  scarce  more  a  corpse  than  ere 

His  last  breath  was  drawn. 


O'HussEY's  ODE  TO  THE  MAGUIRE 

FROM   THE    IRISH 

WHERE  is  my  Chief,  my  Master,  this  bleak  night,  mavrone  ! 

Oh,  cold,  cold,  miserably  cold,  is  this  bleak  night  for  Hugh  ; 

Its   showery,  arrowy,   speary  sleet  pierceth   one   through   and 

through  — 
Pierceth  one  to  the  very  bone  ! 

Rolls  real  thunder?     Or  was  that  red,  livid  light 

Only  a  meteor?     I  scarce  know  ;  but  through  the  midnight  dim 
The  pitiless  ice-wind  streams.     Except  the  hate  that  persecutes 


Nothing  hath  crueller  venomy  might. 


270  BOOK  IV 


An  awful,  a  tremendous  night  is  this,  meseems  ! 

The  flood-gates  of  the  rivers  of  heaven,  I  think,  have  been  burst 

wide — 
Down  from  the  overcharged  clouds,  like  unto  headlong  ocean's 

tide, 
Descends  grey  rain  in  roaring  streams. 

Though  he  were  even  a  wolf  raging  the  round  green  woods, 

Though  he  were  even  a  pleasant  salmon  in  the  unchainable  sea, 
Though  he  were  a  wild  mountain  eagle,  he  could  scarce  bear,  he, 

This  sharp,  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods.. 
* 

Oh  !  mournful  is  my  soul  this  night  for  Hugh  Maguire  ! 
Darkly,  as  in  a  dream  he  strays  !     Before  him  and  behind 
Triumphs  the  tyrannous  anger  of  the  wounding  wind, 

The  wounding  wind  that  burns  as  fire  ! 

It  is  my  bitter  grief— it  cuts  me  to  the  heart — 
That  in  the  country  of  Clan  Darry  this  should  be  his  fate  ! 
Oh,  woe  is  me,  where  is  he  ?     Wandering,  houseless,  desolate, 

Alone,  without  or  guide  or  chart  ! 

Medreams  I  see  just  now  his  face,  the  strawberry-bright, 

Uplifted  to  the  blackened  heavens,  while  the  tempestuous  winds 
Blow  fiercely  over  and  round  him,  and  the  smiting  sleet-shower 
blinds 

The  hero  of  Galang  to-night  ! 

Large,  large  affliction  unto  me  and  mine  it  is, 
That  one  of  his  majestic  bearing,  his  fair,  stately  form, 
Should   thus  be   tortured   and   o'erborne — that   this   unsparing 
storm 

Should  wreak  its  wrath  on  head  like  his  ! 

That  his  great  hand,  so  oft  the  avenger  of  the  oppressed, 

Should  this  chill,  churlish   night,  perchance,  be  paralysed  by 

frost— 
While  through  some  icicle-hung  thicket — as  one  lorn  and  lost — 

He  walks  and  wanders  without  rest. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  271 

The  tempest-driven  torrent  deluges  the  mead  ; 

It  overflows  the  low  banks  of  the  rivulets  and  ponds  — 
The  lawns  and  pasture-grounds  lie  locked  in  icy  bonds, 

So  that  the  cattle  cannot  feed. 

The  pale  bright  margins  of  the  streams  are  seen  by  none  ; 
Rushes  and  sweeps  along  the  untamable  flood  on  every  side — 
It  penetrates  and  fills  the  cottagers'  dwellings  far  and  wide — 

Water  and  land  are  blent  in  one. 

Through  some  dark  wood,  'mid  bones  of  monsters,  Hugh  now 

strays, 
As   he   confronts  the  storm  with   anguished  heart,  but  manly 

.     brow — 

Oh  !  what  a  sword-wound  to  that  tender  heart  of  his  were  now 
A  backward  glance  at  peaceful  days  ! 

But  other  thoughts  are  his — thoughts  that  can  still  inspire 

With  joy  and  an  onward-bounding  hope  the  bosom  of  MacNee — 
Thoughts  of  his  warriors  charging  like  bright  billows  of  the  sea, 

Borne  on  the  wind's  wings,  flashing  fire  ! 

And  though  frost  glaze  to-night  the  clear  dew  of  his  eyes, 
And  white  gauntlets  glove  his  noble  fine  fair  fingers  o'er, 
A  warm  dress  is  to  him  that  lightning-garb  he  ever  wore, 

The  lightning  of  the  soul,  not  skies. 

AVRAN 

Hugh  marched  forth  to  the  fight — I  grieved  to  see  him  so  depart ; 
And    lo !     to-night    he  wanders  frozen,   rain-drenched,    sad, 

betrayed — 
But  the  memory  of  the  lime-white  mansions  his  right  hand  hath 

laid 
In  ashes  warms  the  hero's  heart. 


THE  NAMELESS  ONE 

ROLL  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river 
That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea  ; 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  soul  to  thee  ! 


272  BOOK  IV 


Tell  them  the  world,  when  my  bones  lie  whitening 

Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 
That  there  once  was  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning 
No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-hour, 

How  shone  for  him,  through  his  griefs  and  gloom, 
No  star  of  all  heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on,  my  song,  and  to  after-ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 
He  would  have  taught  men  from  wisdom's  pages 
The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how  trampled,  derided,  hated, 

And  worn  by  weakness,  disease  and  wrong, 
He  fled  for  shelter  to  God,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song — 

With  song  which  alway,  sublime  or  vapid, 
Flowed  like  a  rill  in  the  morning  beam, 
Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid — 
A  mountain  stream. 

Tell  how  the  Nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  that  made  him,  with  groans  and  tears,  long 
For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love, 
With  spirit  shipwrecked,  and  young  hopes  blasted 
He  still,  still  strove. 

Till,  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others, 

And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for  him 
(If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers), 
His  mind  grew  dim. 


JAMES   CLARENCE  MANGAN  273 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns, 
And  pawned  his  soul  for  the  Devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns. 

But  yet  redeemed  it  in  days  of  darkness, 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath,1 
When  death,  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness, 
Stood  in  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck  and  sorrow, 

And  want,  and  sickness,  and  houseless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow 
That  no  ray  lights. 

And  lives  he  still,  then  ?     Yes  !     Old  and  hoary 

At  thirty-nine,  from  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave  to,  ye  pitying  noble, 

Deep  in  your  bosoms  !     There  let  him  dwell  ! 
He,  too,  had  tears  for  all  souls  in  trouble, 
Here  and  in  hell. 


SHAPES!  AND  SIGNS 

I  SEE  black  dragons  mount  the  sky, 
I  see  earth  yawn  beneath  my  feet — 

I  feel  within  the  asp,  the  worm 
That  will  not  sleep  and  cannot  die, 

Fair  though  may  show  the  winding-sheet  ! 
I  hear  all  night  as  through  a  storm 
Hoarse  voices  calling,  calling 
My  name  upon  the  wind — 
All  omens  monstrous  and  appalling 
Affright  my  guilty  mind. 


1  The  '  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath  '  are  described  in  two  terrible 
stanzas  printed  below  from  a  hitherto  unknown  poem  given  in  O'Donoghue's 
LIFE  OF  MANGAN. 

T 


274  BOOK  IV 


I  exult  alone  in  one  wild  hour — 
That  hour  in  which  the  red  cup  drowns 

The  memories  it  anon  renews 
In  ghastlier  guise,  in  fiercer  power— 
Then  Fancy  brings  me  golden  crowns, 
And  visions  of  all  brilliant  hues 
Lap  my  lost  soul  in  gladness, 

Until  I  wake  again, 
And  the  dark  lava-fires  of  madness 
Once  more  sweep  through  my  brain. 


GONE  IN  THE  WIND  l 

i 

SOLOMON  !  where  is  thy  throne  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Babylon  !  where  is  thy  might  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Like  the  swift  shadows  of  Noon,  like  the  dreams  of  the  Blind, 
Vanish  the  glories  and  pomps  of  the  earth  in  the  wind. 


Man  !  canst  thou  build  upon  aught  in  the  pride  of  thy  mind  ? 
Wisdom  will  teach  thee  that  nothing  can  tarry  behind  ; 
Though  there  be  thousand  bright  actions  embalmed  and  enshrined, 
Myriads  and  millions  of  brighter  are  snow  in  the  wind. 

in 

Solomon  !  where  is  thy  throne?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Babylon  !  where  is  thy  might  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
All  that  the  genius  of  man  hath  achieved  or  designed 
Waits  but  its  hour  to  be  dealt  with  as  dust  by  the  wind. 

1  With  one  of  Mangan's  usual  mystifications  this  magnificent  threnody 
was  described  by  him  as  a  translation  from  the  German  of  Riickert,  and 
has  hitherto  always  been  printed  as  such.  It  has,  however,  no  German 
original — the  phrase  '  gone  in  the  wind '  being  practically  all  that  it  possesses 
in  common  with  a  certain  poem  of  Rlickert's,  and  there  the  phrase  is  used 
differently.  We  therefore  restore  the  poem  to  its  true  author. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN  275 


IV 

Say,  what  is  Pleasure  t    A  phantom,  a  mask  undefined. 
Science  ?    An  almond,  whereof  we  can  pierce  but  the  rind. 
Honour  and  Affluence?     Firmans  that  Fortune  hath  signed, 
Only  to  glitter  and  pass  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 


Solomon  !  where  is  thy  throne  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Babylon  !  where  is  thy  might  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Who  is  the  Fortunate  ?     He  who  in  anguish  hath  pined  ! 
He  shall  rejoice  when  his  relics  are  dust  in  the  wind  ! 

v\ 

Mortal !  be  careful  with  what  thy  best  hopes  are  entwined  ; 
Woe  to  the  miners  for  Truth — where  the  Lampless  have  mined  ! 
Woe  to  the  seekers  on  earth  for — what  none  ever  find  ! 
They  and  their  trust  shall  be  scattered  like  leaves  on  the  wind. 

VII 

Solomon  !  where  is  thy  throne  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Babylon  !  where  is  thy  might  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Happy  in  death  are  they  only  whose  hearts  have  consigned 
All  Earth's  affections  and  longings  and  cares  to  the  wind. 

VIII 

Pity,  thou,  reader  !  the  madness  of  poor  humankind, 
Raving  of  knowledge— and  Satan  so  busy  to  blind  ! 
Raving  of  glory, — like  me, — for  the  garlands  I  bind 
(Garlands  of  Song)  are  but  gathered,  and  strewn  in  the  wind 

IX 

Solomon  !  where  is  thy  throne  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Babylon  !  where  is  thy  might  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
I,  Abul-Namez,  must  rest  ;  for  my  fire  hath  declined, 
And  I  hear  voices  from  Hades  like  bells  on  the  wind. 

T3 


276  BOOK  IV 


WRITTEN  IN  A  NUNNERY  CHAPEL1 

ME  hither  from  moonlight 
A  voice  ever  calls, 

Where  pale  pillars  cluster 
And  organ  tones  roll — 
Nor  sunlight  nor  moonlight 
E'er  silver  these  walls  ; 
Lives  here  other  lustre, 
The  Light  of  the  Soul. 

Here  budded  and  blossomed, 
Here  faded  and  died, 

Like  brief-blooming  roses, 
Earth's  purest  of  pure  ! 
Now  ever  embosomed 
In  bliss  they  abide — 

Oh,  may,  when  life  closes, 
My  meed  be  as  sure  ! 


SIR   SAMUEL   FERGUSON 

OMITTING  living  writers,  of  whom  it  is  too  early  to  speak  with 
confidence,  Ferguson  was  unquestionably  the  Irish  poet  of  the 
past  century  who  has  most  powerfully  influenced  the  literary 
history  of  his  country.  It  was  in  his  writings  that  the  great 
work  of  restoring  to  Ireland  the  spiritual  treasure  it  had  lost  in 
parting  with  the  Gaelic  tongue  was  decisively  begun.  He  was, 
however,  no  mere  antiquarian.  He  was  also  a  man  of  affairs, 
and  a  patriot  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  He  had  friends 
in  all  parties,  and  yet  was  in  no  respect  a  political  trimmer. 
Indeed,  though  with  strong  National  proclivities — of  which  he 
gave  evidence  in  some  of  his  earlier  ballads,  and  which  came 
to  the  front  in  his  successful  defence  of  Richard  Dalton 
Williams,  the  Young  Ireland  poet,  when  tried  for  treason- 

1  From  O'Donoghue's  LIFE  OF  MANGAN. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  277 


felony — he  felt  that  the  highest  duty  he  owed  his  country  was 
that  of  a  poet  and  prose  writer  above  party.  As  Mr.  Yeats 
points  out,  '  he  was  wiser  than  Young  Ireland  in  the  choice  of 
his  models  ;  for  while  drawing  not  less  than  they  from  purely 
Irish  sources,  he  turned  to  the  great  poets  of  the  world  for  his 
style,'  and  notably  to  Homer  :  and  the  result  is  that,  as  Roden 
Noel  puts  it,  *  CONGAL  and  his  shorter  Irish  heroic  poems 
combine  in  a  striking  manner  the  vague,  undefined  shadowy 
grandeur,  the  supernatural  glamour  of  northern  romance,  with 
the  self-restraint,  distinct  symmetrical  outline,  ordered  pro- 
portion and  organic  construction  of  the  Greek  classic.'  More 
than  this,  as  Mr.  Aubrey  De  Vere  observes,  '  its  qualities  are 
those  characteristic  of  the  noble,  not  the  ignoble  poetry — viz. 
passion,  imagination,  vigour,  an  epic  largeness  of  conception, 
wide  human  sympathies,  vivid  and  truthful  description— while 
with  them  it  unites  none  of  the  vulgar  stimulants  for  exhausted 
or  morbid  poetic  appetite,  whether  the  epicurean  seasoning, 
the  sceptical,  or  the  revolutionary.'  Again,  Ferguson  differs 
from  those  who  regard  the  poetical  life  as  another  world  de- 
tachable from  this — a  life  mystical,  non-human,  non-moral — 
the  life,  if  you  will,  of  faery,  demon,  or  demi-god.  These  men 
do  not  seem  able  to  grasp  the  fact  that  the  noblest  poetic  work 
of  all,  that  of  Shakespeare  and  Dante  and  the  great  Greek 
tragedians,  possesses  all  the  elusive  glamour  of  genius  and 
that  something  besides  which  makes  it  human — or,  rather, 
divine — because  it  catches  and  inflames  the  divine  spark  in  the 
human  heart,  and  thereby  satisfies  and  saves. 

No  doubt  the  attitude  of  the  poetic  school  who  would  thus 
pen  off  poetry  from  practice  is  the  not  unnatural  revolt  of 
young  Celtic  idealists  against  the  Anglo-Saxon  materialism 'of 
a  great  deal  of  modern  British  life.  But  are  they  not  thereby 
promoting  an  intellectual  error  as  dangerous  as  the  mediaeval 
one  which  isolated  learning  and  piety  in  the  monastery  and  the 
desert  ?  Will  not  its  limitation  by  a  literary  coterie  lead  them 
into  a  worse  isolation  ? 

Ferguson  was  in  no  danger  of  falling  into  this  illusion. 
He  was  absolutely  human  and  practical,  broad  and 


278  BOOK  IV 


sympathetic-minded  both.  Yet  for  entire  success  as  a  poet  in 
his  particular  day  he  had  to  struggle  against  difficulties  con- 
stitutional, accidental,  and  of  his  own  seeking.  His  very 
versatility  rendered  difficult  that  entire  devotion  of  his  energies 
to  his  art  of  which  Tennyson  is  the  great  modern  example. 
He  could  not  spare  the  time,  even  had  he  the  taste,  for  that 
fastidious  word-for-word  finish  in  verse  to  which  the  late 
Laureate  accustomed  the  critics,  and  through  them  the  educated 
public.  Then  Ferguson  was  deliberately  facing  the  fact  that 
the  Irish  themes  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  had  no  public 
to  greet  them.  A  generation  before,  they  would  have  had  the 
support  of  a  cultured  and  unprovincialised  Irish  upper  class  ; 
a  generation  later  they  would  have  claimed  attention,  in 
Ferguson's  hands,  as  the  noblest  outcome  of  the  Irish  literary 
revival.  He  was  therefore  both  before  and  after  his  time, 
and  realised  his  position  to  the  full.  Indeed,  when  the  writer 
once  spoke  to  him  with  regret  of  the  neglect  of  all  but  Irish 
literature  other  than  political,  he  acknowledged  it,  but  with  the 
quiet  expression  of  his  confidence  that  '  his  time  would  come.' 

Professor  Dowden  has  called  Ferguson  an  eighteenth- 
century  poet.  It  would  be  interesting  to  see  him  develop  this 
theme.  Perhaps  his  point  of  view  may  be  surmised  from  the 
following  passage  in  a  letter  addressed  by  him  to  Ferguson  : 
*  You  say  CONGAL  has  not  been  a  success.  I  think,  whether 
on  "  broad  rumour  "  or  not,  a  success  it  has  been,  estimated  by 
the  "perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove." 

'  A  poem  with  epic  breadth  and  thews  is  not  likely  to  be 
popular  now.  A  diseased  and  over-sensitive  nerve  is  a  quali- 
fication for  the  writing  of  poetry  at  present,  much  more  than  a 
thoughtful  brain  or  strength  of  muscle.  Some  little  bit  of 
novel  sensibility,  a  delight  in  such  colours  as  French  milliners 
send  over  for  ladies'  bonnets,  or  the  nosing  of  certain  curious 
odours,  is  enough  to  make  the  fortune  of  a  small  poet. 
What  seems  to  me  most  noteworthy  in  your  poems  is  the 
union  of  culture  with  simplicity  and  strength.  Their  refine- 
ment is  large  and  strong,  not  curious  and  diseased  ;  and  they 
have  spaces  and  movements  which  give  one  a  feeling  like  the 


SSR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  279 

sea  or  the  air  on  a  headland.     I  had  not  meant  to  say  anything 
of  CONGAL,  but  somehow  this  came  and  said  itself.' 

Nothing  could  be  more  largely  appreciative  of  Ferguson's 
work  than  this.  That  fine  saying,  '  Your  poems  have  spaces 
and  movements  which  give  one  a  feeling  like  the  sea  or  the 
air  on  a  headland,'  may  be  here  illustrated  by  one  of  the 
greatest  passages  in  CONGAL  ;  indeed,  it  in  all  probability 
suggested  the  criticism  to  Dr.  Dowden.  It  may  be  quoted, 
moreover,  as  a  telling  example  of  how  Ferguson's  careless 
or  rough  treatment  of  detail  is  carried  off  by  the  largeness  of 
his  conception  and  movement : 

He  looking  landward  from  the  brow  o£  some  great  sea-cape's  head, 

Bray  or  Ben-Edar — sees  beneath,  in  silent  pageant  grand, 

Slow  fields  of  sunshine  spread  o'er  fields  of  rich,  corn-bearing  land  ; 

Red  glebe  and  meadow  margin  green  commingling  to  the  view 

With  yellow  stubble,  browning  woods,  and  upland  tracts  of  blue ; 

Then,  sated  with  the  pomp  of  fields,  turns,  seaward,  to  the  verge 

Where,  mingling  with  the  murmuring  wash  made  by  the  far-down  surge, 

Comes  up  the  clangorous  song  of  birds  unseen,  that,  low  beneath, 

Poised  off  the  rock,  ply  underfoot  ;  and,  'mid  the  blossoming  heath, 

And  mint-sweet  herb  that  loves  the  ledge  rare-air'd,  at  ease  reclined, 

Surveys  the  wide  pale-heaving  floor  crisped  by  a  curling  wind  ; 

With  all  its  shifting,  shadowy  belts,  and  chasing  scopes  of  green, 

Sun-strown,  foam-freckled,  sail-embossed,  and  blackening  squalls  between, 

And  slant,  cerulean-skirted  showers  that  with  a  drowsy  sound, 

Heard  inward,  of  ebullient  waves,  stalk  all  the  horizon  round  ; 

And — haply,  being  a  citizen  just  'scaped  from  some  disease 

That  long  has  held  him  sick  indoors,  now,  in  the  brine-fresh  breeze, 

Health-salted,  bathes  ;  and  says,  the  while  he  breathes  reviving  bliss, 

'  I  am  not  good  enough,  O  God,  nor  pure  enough  for  this  !  ' 

The  ear  educated  to  Tennyson's  or  Swinburne's  verse  would 
be  jarred  by  the  heavy  aggregation  of  consonants  in  '  Red 
glebe,'  '  Poised  off  the  rock,  ply,'  '  loves  the  ledge  rare-aired, 
'just  'scaped  from  some  disease'  ;  by  the  rough  metrical  effect 
of  '  made  by '  in  the  seventh  line ;  and  by  the  necessity  for 
pausing  after  '  birds '  in  the  next,  if  it  is  to  be  made  to  scan  at 
all.  But  as  a  presentment  of  country,  cliff,  and  ocean,  it  is 
alike  so  broad  and  delicate  in  colour  and  movement  that  it 


280  BOOK  IV 


rises  visibly  before  us,  till  the  sough  of  the  sea  is  in  our  ears, 
and  we  breathe  and  smell  its  keen  savours.  Then  the  human 
note  with  which  it  closes  is  inexpressibly  touching. 

It  is  not,  however,  implied  that  Ferguson  is  wanting  in  the 
musical  ear  or  the  appreciation  of  fine  poetical  craftsmanship, 
but  rather  suggested  that,  unlike  Tennyson  and  other  writers, 
he  is  not  sectus  ad  unguem  in  everything  he  attempts,  because 
he  is  not  careful  to  be  so.  Moreover,  like  Wordsworth,  he  did 
not  always  write  when  his  best  mood  was  upon  him. 

'The  Forging  of  the  Anchor'  is  a  remarkably  finished 
achievement  for  a  young  man  of  one-and-twenty,  and  'The 
Fairy  Thorn,'  another  early  poem,  is  exquisite  wizardry  itself. 
True,  it  appears  to  have  been  conceived  and  executed  with  a 
rapidity  which  was  inspiration,  and  is  indeed  one  of  Ferguson's 
gems  without  flaw.  But  the  fact  remains  that  very  little  of 
Ferguson's  has  this  absolute  verbal  felicity. 

His  translations  from  the  Irish  are  among  the  best  of  the 
kind.  They  differ  from  Miss  Brooke's  and  Miss  Balfour's 
versions,  and  those  of  other  translators  preceding  him,  by  their 
assimilation  of  Irish  idioms  and  Irish  measures  into  Englis.i 
verse  without  violence — indeed,  with  a  happy  judgment  which 
lends  a  delightful  effect  to  these  lyrics.  Edward  Walsh  has 
scarcely  excelled  Ferguson  in  this  field  ;  and  Dr.  Sigerson  and 
Dr.  Hyde,  though  they  come  closer  to  the  original  metres, 
rarely  go  past  him  in  poetical  passion. 

But  the  very  character  of  the  originals  calls  for  simple  treat- 
ment, and  high  polish  would  have  spoilt  Ferguson's  verse- 
translations  from  the  Irish. 

Ferguson  was  casting  round  for  nobler  themes  to  work 
upon,  whilst  keeping  his  hand  in  at  these  translations. 
Patriotic  to  the  core,  he  was  above  all  things  eager  to  achieve 
something  lofty  in  literature  for  Ireland's  sake — something 
that  might  help  to  lift  her  from  the  intellectual  flats  upon 
which  she  had  fallen. 

In  his  own  delightful  epistle  to  his  friend  Dr.  Gordon, 
written  in  Burns's  measure,  as  from  one  descendant  of  the  Scot 
to  another,  he  thus  puts  it : 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  281 

And,  aiblins  though  at  times  mislasted 

Wi'  grievous  thochts  o'  moments  wasted, 

Auld  frien's  estranged,  and  green  hopes  blasted, 

As  birkies  will 
When  the  'mid  line  o'  life  they've  crossed  it, 

I'm  happy  still. 

For  ilka  day  I'm  growin'  stronger 
To  speak  my  mind  in  love  or  anger ; 
And,  hech  !  ere  it  be  muckle  longer, 

You'll  see  appearin 
Some  offerin's  o'  nae  cauld  haranguer 

Put  out  for  Erin. 

Lord,  for  ae  day  o'  service  done  her  ! 

Lord,  for  ane  hour's  sunlight  upon  her  ! 

Here,  Fortune,  tak'  warld's  wealth  and  honour, 

You're  no  my  debtor, 
Let  me  but  rive  ae  link  asunder 

O'  Erin's  fetter  ! 

Let  me  but  help  to  shape  the  sentence 
Will  put  the  pith  o'  independence, 
O'  self-respect  in  self- acquaintance, 

And  manly  pride 
Intil  auld  Eber-Scot's  descendants — 

Take  a'  beside  ! 

Let  me  but  help  to  get  the  truth 
Set  fast  in  ilka  brother's  mouth, 
Whatever  accents,  north  or  south, 

His  tongue  may  use, 
And  there's  ambition,  riches,  youth, 

Take  which  you  choose. 

But  dinna,  dinna  take  my  frien's  ; 
And  spare  me  still  my  dreams  at  e'ens, 
And  sense  o'  Nature's  bonny  scenes, 

And  a'  above  ; 
Leave  me,  at  least,  if  no'  the  means 

The  thocht  o'  love  ! 

But  before  he  had  ripened  for  the  full  outcome  of  his  genius 
Ferguson  anticipated  it  by  one  of  the  noblest  laments  in  our 
language — 'Thomas  Davis:  an  Elegy,  1845' — a  poignant 


282  BOOK  IV 


expression  of  his  grief  at  the  death  of  his  friend,  the  famous 
young  National  leader. 

Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  tells  us  that  '  Ferguson,  who  lay  on 
a  bed  of  sickness  when  Davis  died — impatient  that  for  the 
moment  he  could  take  no  part  in  public — asked  me  to  come 
to  him,  that  he  might  ease  his  heart  by  expressing  his  sense  of 
what  he  had  lost.  He  read  me  fragments  of  a  poem  written 
under  these  circumstances,  the  most  Celtic  in  structure  and 
spirit  of  all  the  elegies  laid  on  the  tomb  of  Davis.  The  last 
verse  sounded  like  a  prophecy — it  was,  at  any  rate,  a  powerful 
incentive  to  take  up  our  task  anew.' 

The  Irish  potato  famine  now  intervened,  and  drove  Fer- 
guson into  the  sava  indignatio  of  Juvenal  at  the  Government 
mismanagement,  which  had  multiplied  its  horrors  a  hundredfold. 

No  one  knew  this  better  than  himself,  for  he  was  secretary 
to  the  Irish  Council  whose  wise  advice,  tendered  to  the  English 
Parliament,  was  rejected  in  favour  of  futile  experimental  legis- 
lation. Convinced  that  a  Parliament  after  Grattan's  model 
would  have  saved  the  country,  he  became  a  Repealer  and  one 
of  the  poets  of  Repeal. 

Deem  not,  O  generous  English  hearts,  who  gave 
Your  noble  aid  our  sinking  Isle  to  save, 
This  breast,  though  heated  in  its  Country's  feud, 
Owns  aught  towards  you  but  perfect  gratitude. 

But,  frankly  while  we  thank  you  all  who  sent 

Your  alms,  so  thank  we  not  your  Parliament, 

Who,  what  they  gave,  from  treasures  of  our  own 

Gave,  if  you  call  it  giving,  this  half  loan, 

Half  gift  from  the  recipients  to  themselves 

Of  their  own  millions,  be  they  tens  or  twelves  ; 

Our  own  as  well  as  yours  :  our  Irish  brows 

Had  sweated  for  them  ;  though  your  Commons'  House, 

Forgetting  your  four  hundred  millions  debt, 

When  first  in  partnership  our  nations  met, 

Against  our  twenty-four  (you  then  twofold 

The  poorer  people),  call  them  British  Gold. 

No  ;  for  these  drafts  on  our  United  Banks 

We  owe  no  gratitude  and  give  no  thanks  ! 


SAMUEL  FERGUSON  283 


More  than  you'd  give  to  us,  if  Dorsetshire 
Or  York  a  like  assistance  should  require  ; 
Or  than  you  gave  us  when,  to  compensate 
Your  slave-owners,  you  charged  our  common  state 
Twice  the  amount  :  no,  but  we  rather  give 
Our  curses,  and  will  give  them  while  we  live, 
To  that  pernicious  blind  conceit,  and  pride, 
Wherewith  the  aids  we  asked  you  misapplied. 

Sure,  for  our  wretched  Country's  various  ills 
We've  got,  a  man  would  think,  enough  of  bills,  — 
Bills  to  make  paupers,  bills  to  feed  them  made  ; 
Bills  to  make  sure  that  paupers'  bills  are  paid  ; 
Bills  in  each  phrase  of  economic  slang  ; 
Bills  to  transport  the  men  they  dare  not  hang 
(I  mean  no  want  of  courage  physical, 
'  'Tis  Conscience  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all'). 

Ferguson,  however,  lived  to  turn  this  fine  power  of  literary 
invective  against  the  successors  of  the  Young  Ireland  poets 
and  patriots  with  whom  he  had  sympathised,  when  he  found 
them  descending  from  the  high  aspirations  of  Davis  and 
Duffy  to  what  he  believed  to  be  'a  sordid  social  war  of 
classes  carried  on  by  the  vilest  methods.' 

In  his  satiric  poems  *  The  Curse  of  the  Joyces  '  and  '  At 
the  Polo  Ground  '  —  an  analysis  in  Browning's  manner  of  Carey's 
frame  of  mind  before  giving  the  fatal  signal  to  the  assassins  of 
Mr.  Burke  and  Lord  Frederic  Cavendish—  and  in  his  Dublin 
eclogue  *  In  Carey's  Footsteps,'  he  attacks  the  cruelties  of 
the  then  existing  system  of  political  agitation  with  unsparing 
severity. 

Ferguson's  LAYS  OF  THE  WESTERN  GAEL,  which  appeared 
in  1864,  was  a  gratifying  surprise  even  to  many  of  his  friends, 
owing  to  the  inclusion  in  it  of  fresh  and  finer  work  than  he  had 
yet  achieved.  Their  point  of  departure  is  thus  well  described 
by  Mr.  A.  M.  Williams,  tke  American  critic  : 

'  The  LAYS  OF  THE  WESTERN  GAEL  are  a  series  of  ballads 
founded  on  events  in  Celtic  history,  and  derived  from  the 
Early  Chronicles  and  poems.  They  are  original  in  form  and 
substance,  the  ballad  form  and  measure  being  unknown  to 


284  BOOK  IV 


the  early  Celtic  poets  of  Ireland  ;  but  they  preserve  in  a 
wonderful  degree  the  ancient  spirit,  and  give  a  picture  of 
the  ancient  times  with  all  the  art  of  verity.  They  have  a 
solemnity  of  measure  like  the  voice  of  one  of  the  ancient  bards 
chanting  of 

Old  forgotten  far-off  things 

And  battles  long  ago, 

and  they  are  clothed  with  the  mists  of  a  melancholy  age. 
They  include  such  subjects  as  "  The  Tain  Quest,"  the  search 
of  the  bard  for  the  lost  lay  of  the  great  cattle-raid  of  Queen 
Maeve  of  Connaught,  and  its  recovery,  by  invocation,  from  the 
voice  of  its  dead  author,  who  rises  in  misty  form  above  his 
grave  ;  "The  Healing  of  Conall  Carnach,"  a  story  of  violated 
sanctuary  and  its  punishment  ;  "  The  Welshmen  of  Tirawley," 
one  of  the  most  spirited  and  original,  and  which  has  been 
pronounced  by  Mr.  Swinburne  as  amongst  the  finest  of  modern 
ballads,  telling  of  a  cruel  mulct  inflicted  upon  the  members  of 
a.  Welsh  Colony  and  its  vengeance  ;  and  other  incidents  in 
early  Irish  history.  In  his  poems,  rather  than  in  Macpherson's 
"  Ossian  "  or  in  the  literal  translations,  will  the  modern  reader 
find  the  voice  of  the  ancient  Celtic  bards  speaking  to  the 
intelligence  of  to-day  in  their  own  tones,  without  false  change 
and  dilution,  or  the  confusion  and  dimness  of  an  ancient 
language.' 

Of  the  longer  lays  thus  far  published,  '  The  Tain  Quest ' 
found  the  greatest  acceptance  with  his  poetic  compeers,  and 
the  most  notable  criticism  of  it  was  that  of  Thomas  Aird.  '  In 
all  respects  "The  Tain  Quest"  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
poems  of  our  day.  Specially  do  I  admire  the  artistic  skill 
with  which  you  have  doubled  the  interest  of  the  Quest  itself 
by  introducing  in  the  most  natural  and  unencumbering  way 
so  many  of  the  best  points  of  the  "Great  Cattle  Foray,"  the 
subject-matter  of  the  "  Tain."  The  shield  has  long  been  grand 
in  poetry  ;  you  have  made  it  grander.  The  refusal  of  Fergus  to 
stir  to  the  force  of  private  sympathy,  but  his  instantaneous 
recognition  of  the  patriotic  necessity  of  song,  is  a  just  and 
noble  conception. 


5Y/?  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  285 


4  The  power  of  the  Bard  over  the  rude  men  of  Gort  ;  the 
filial  piety  of  the  sons  of  Sanchan,  and  their  brotherly  love  ; 
that  mysterious  Vapour,  and  that  terrible  blast  of  entrance,  and 
the  closing  malediction  by  the  Maiden,  are  all  very  notable 
towards  the  consummation  of  effect.  As  for  the  kissing  of  the 
champions  in  the  pauses  of  the  fight,  I  know  of  nothing  in  the 
reaches  of  our  human  blood  so  marvellously  striking  and 
sweet;  you  have  now  made  it  immortal  in  song.  However 
admirably  expressed,  the  last  stanza  is  an  error  in  art.  Surely 
you  spoil  the  grand  close,  and  the  whole  piece,  by  appending 
your  own  personality  of  interference  as  a  commentator  on  the 
malediction.  Might  1  not  further  say  (with  a  peculiar  smile) 
you  make  the  preordained  fulfilment  of  Malison  a  sublime 
apology  for  Irish  Grub  Street  ? '  The  sting  in  the  tail  of  this 
fine  judgment  is  deserved,  and  it  is  curious  to  observe  that 
Ferguson  has  been  similarly  unlucky  in  'The  Welshmen  of 
Tirawley '  in  this  attempt  to  tag  a  comment  on  to  the  end  of 
a  tale  which  he  has  so  nobly  adorned.  That  magnificently 
savage  lay  should  end  with  the  ante-penultimate  stanza. 

This  tendency  to  act  at  times  as  a  commentator  on  his  own 
work  and  to  present  it  at  others  in  a  too  ponderously  Latinised 
form  are,  with  the  careless,  not  to  say  bluff,  disregard  for 
verbal  delicacies  into  which  he  now  and  again  lapses,  the  only 
proclivities  to  which  exception  can  be  taken  in  Ferguson's 
technique.  But  his  method  is  uniformly  manly,  and  his 
occasional  periods  of  majestic  inspiration  sweep  our  minor 
critical  objections  before  them,  as  the  blast  from  his  Mananan's 
mantle  swept  the  chieftain  and  his  hound  into  the  valley 
like  leaves  before  the  wind.  We  have  taken  Ferguson  to 
our  hearts  as  we  take  our  best  brother,  cherishing  his  very  pon- 
derosities and  carelessnesses  as  part  and  parcel  of  his  greatness, 
as  we  cherish  the  kindred  qualities  in  Samuel  Johnson — for  the 
love  of  the  man  and  the  gentleman  behind  the  bluff  exterior. 

In  1872  appeared  CONGAL,  which  Ferguson  describes  in 
a  letter  to  Father  Russell  as  an  epic  poem  of  greater  length 
and  higher  literary  pretension  than  his  LAYS  OF  THE  WESTERN 
GAEL. 


286  BOOK  IV 


An  epic  requires  a  great  subject,  and  he  who  writes  it 
must  have  vision  and  manliness  closely  allied  in  his  nature, 
else  how  can  he  realise  the  heroic  ideal  ?  These  are  Ferguson's 
pre-eminent  qualities.  He  is  manly.  His  heroes  proclaim  it  in 
their  every  action,  their  every  utterance  ;  and  his  tender  portrait 
of  Lafinda  could  only  have  been  drawn  by  a  gallant  gentleman. 
He  has  vision.  The  terrible  shapes  and  Celtic  superstitions — 
the  Giant  Walker,  the  Washer  of  the  Ford  -  loom  monstrously 
before  us  as  he  sings  ;  and  he  marshals  the  contending  hosts 
at  Moyra  with  a  magnificent  realism  to  which  we  know  no 
modern  parallel. 

His  subject  is  a  great  old-world  tale  of  love  and  hate,  and 
ambition  and  jealousy,  and  craft  and  courage — a  splendid 
story  of  the  last  heroic  stand  made  by  Celtic  Paganism  against 
the  Irish  Champions  of  the  Cross.  An  epitome  of  it  with 
illustrative  passages  is  annexed. 

But  great  though  much  of  CONGAL  undoubtedly  is,  Fer- 
guson's genius  was  to  break  into  finest  flower  at  the  last. 

The  volume  of  1880  contains  some  striking  verse  of  a 
religious,  philosophical,  and  personal  kind,  including  the  search- 
ing '  Two  Voices,'  the  trenchant  and  yet  more  touching  'Three 
Thoughts,' the  noble  lines  entitled  'The  Morning's  Hinges,' 
and  the  lofty  '  Hymn  of  the  Fishermen ' — a  poem  written  after 
a  surmounted  danger  of  shipwreck.  But  in  '  Deirdre '  and 
'  Conary  '  he  reaches  his  fullest  height  as  a  poet,  and  the  best 
that  has  been  said  or  could  well  be  said  about  them  comes 
from  William  Allingham  and  Aubrey  De  Vere— the  two  men 
of  his  time  whose  opinion  should  interest,  if  not  influence,  us 
most. 

Allingham  wrote  on  receipt  of  the  volume  :  '  Many 
thoughts  of  my  own  swarmed  about  the  pages  as  I  turned 
them,  like  bees  in  a  lime-tree.  In  your  style  high  culture  is 
reconciled  with  simplicity,  directness,  and  originality  ;  and 
nothing  can  be  happier  than  you  enrichment  of  English 
speech  with  Irish  forms  without  the  least  violence.  All  the 
Irish  poems  are  very  remarkable,  but  "  Deirdre  "  I  count  the 
chief  triumph.  Its  peculiar  form  of  unity  is  perfectly  managed, 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  287 

while  in  general  effect  it  recalls  nothing  so  much  as  a  Greek 
play.' 

Mr.  Aubrey  De  Vere  and  Mr.  Yeats,  and  perhaps  the  larger 
proportion  of  the  other  leading  Irish  critics,  prefer  *  Conary ' 
to  '  DeirdreV 

'  It  would  be  difficult,'  writes  De  Vere,  c  to  find,  amid  our 
recent  literature,  a  poem  which  at  once  aims  as  high  as  "  Conary  " 
and  as  adequately  fulfils  its  aim.  .  .  .  Novel  to  English  readers 
as  is  such  a  poetic  theme,  and  embarrassing  as  are  a  few  of  the 
Gaelic  names,  the  work  belongs  to  the  "  great "  style  of  poetry 
—that  style  which  is  characterised  by  simplicity,  breadth  of 
effect,  a  careless  strength  full  of  movement,  but  with  nothing 
of  the  merely  "  sensational "  about  it,  and  an  entire  absence  of 
those  unclassic  tricks  that  belong  to  meaner  verse.  It  has 
caught  thoroughly  that  epic  character  so  remarkable  in  those 
Bardic  Legends  which  were  transmitted  orally  through  ages 
when  Homer  must  have  been  a  name  unknown  in  Ireland.' 

To  sum  up  :  though  at  times  over- scholarly  and  nodding 
now  and  again— as  all  the  great  unconscious  poets,  from  Homer 
down,  will  occasionally  nod,  as  opposed  to  the  little  self-con- 
scious ones  who  are  never  caught  napping — Ferguson  is  always 
human,  always  simple,  always  strong.  Sense  ever  goes  before 
sound  with  him.  He  is  no  mere  reed  for  blowing  music 
through.  He  takes  you  into  no  gorgeous  jungle  of  colour  and 
scent,  and  stealing  serpent  and  ravening  beast,  where  per- 
spective is  lost  and  will  paralysed,  and  passion  riots  unrestrained. 

No  !  what  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  finely  wrote  in  1886  is  still 
true  to-day  : 

'  The  author  of  these  poems  is  the  greatest  poet  Ireland 
has  produced,  because  the  most  central  and  most  Celtic. 
Whatever  the  future  may  bring  forth  in  the  way  of  a  truly 
great  and  national  literature — and  now  that  the  race  is  so 
large,  so  widely  spread,  and  so  conscious  of  its  unity,  the  years 
are  ripe-  will  find  its  morning  in  these  three  volumes  of  one 
who  was  made  by  the  purifying  flame  of  national  sentiment 
the  one  man  of  his  time  who  wrote  heroic  poety — one  who, 
among  the  somewhat  sybaritic  singers  of  his  day,  was  like  some 


288  BOOK  IV 


aged  sea-king  sitting  among  the  inland  wheat  and  poppies — 
the  savour  of  the  sea  about  him  and  its  strength.' 

A.  P.  GRAVES. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson,  sixth  and  youngest  child  of  John  Ferguson  and 
his  wife  Agnes  Knox,  was  born  in  Belfast,  in  the  house  of  his  maternal 
grandfather,  on  March  10,  1810. 

The  Ferguson  family  had  migrated  to  the  North  of  Ireland  from 
Scotland  about  the  year  1640,  and  we  find  Samuel  Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel's 
grandfather,  resident  at  Standing  Stone,  in  the  County  of  Antrim.  The 
younger  Samuel  was  educated  in  Belfast  and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 
He  was  called  to  the  Irish  Bar  in  1838,  and  to  the  Inner  Bar  in  1859. 

In  1867  he  retired  from  the  practice  of  his  profession  to  become  the 
first  Deputy  Keeper  of  the  Records  of  Ireland.  But  while  only  in  his 
twenty-first  year  he  wrote  '  The  Forging  of  the  Anchor '  and  '  Willy 
Gilliland,'  and  contributed  prose  such  as  '  The  Wet  Wooing'  and  'The 
Return  of  Claneboy '  to  Blackivood.  A  little  later,  in  the  early  thirties,  he 
published  '  The  Fairy  Thorn,'  '  The  Forester's  Complaint, 'and  a  series  of 
papers  on  Hardiman's  IRISH  MINSTRELSY,  containing  verse-translations 
from  the  Gaelic.  A  long  series  of  historic  tales — the  Hibernian  Nights 
Entertainments — followed  in  The  Dublin  University  Magazine.  Over- 
wrought at  the  Bar,  he  recruited  his  health  by  spending  the  year  1845-46 
on  the  Continent,  employing  much  of  his  time  in  a  diligent  examination  of 
the  museums,  libraries,  and  architectural  remains  of  the  principal  places  in 
Europe  where  traces  of  the  early  Irish  scholars  and  missionaries  might  be 
looked  for.  His  notebooks  are  in  consequence  enriched  with  exquisite 
sketches  of  scenery  and  antiquities  and  pen-and-ink  etchings  of  foreign, 
cathedrals. 

Thus  his  travels  adde.d  largely  to  his  knowledge  of  art,  archaeology,  and 
history. 

He  married  in  1848  Mary  Catherine,  eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  Robert  R. 
Guinness,  and  soon  settled  permanently  at  20  North  Great  George's  Street, 
Dublin.  In  the  same  year  he  founded  the  Protestant  Repeal  Association 
to  aid  the  Young  Ireland  movement,  but  subsequently  withdrew  altogether 
from  active  politics.  In  1865,  after  the  publication  of  his  LAYS  OF  THE 
WESTERN  GAEL,  he  received  the  degree  of  LL.D.  honoris  causd  from 
Dublin  University,  and  in  1874  was  made  an  honorary  member  of  the 
Society  of  Antiquaries  of  Scotland.  His  knighthood  was  conferred  on  him 
in  1878,  he  was  made  president  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy  in  1881,  and 
at  the  tercentenary  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh  in  1884  he  received 
the  honorary  degree  of  LL.  D. 

During  these  years  he  was  a  busy  writer  on  literary  and  archaeological 
questions,  and  as  an  evidence  of  the  variety  of  his  work  at  this  time  may 
be  mentioned  his  famous  jeu  d"1  esprit  '  Father  Tom  and  the  Pope,'  afterwards 


SAMUEL  FERGUSON  289 


reprinted  in  '  Tales  from  Black-wood,'1  and  his  letter  to  Hallam  the  historian, 
which  appeared  in  The  Dublin  University  Magazine  and  led  to  the  erection 
of  a  statue  in  the  new  Houses  of  Parliament  to  Henri  de  Londres,  Arch- 
bishop of  Dublin  in  the  thirteenth  century,  whose  just  claim  to  that  distinc- 
tion would  otherwise  have  been  overlooked. 

Many  of  Ferguson's  articles  in  magazines  and  reviews  at  the  time  deal 
with  such  general  subjects  as  the  poetry  of  Burns  and  Mrs.  Browning, 
Ruskin's  STONES  OF  VENICE  and  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 
Layard's  NINEVEH,  and  Chesney's  volume  on  Artillery. 

But  the  work  which  was  distinctly  his,  and  to  which  his  best  faculties 
were  given,  was  concerned  with  Ireland,  and  covered  a  wide  field.  For  we 
find  him  dealing  now  with  Irish  music,  now  with  Irish  architecture  ;  or 
again  with  Irish  annals,  Irish  law,  and  Irish  antiquities  —  Pagan  and  Christian 
—  and  yet  attending  to  such  subjects  of  modern  importance  as  the  attractions 
and  capabilities  of  his  country.  And  here  it  may  be  said  that  he  was  an 
ardent  explorer  of  Irish  scenery  as  well  as  of  the  remains  of  the  old  Irish 
ecclesiastical  establishments,  as  his  two  charming  papers—  the  results  of  a 
tour  made  by  him  to  Clonmacnois,  Clare,  and  Aran—  convincingly  prove. 
To  these  prose  works  he  was  meantime  adding  his  '  Lament  for  Thomas 
Davis,'  his  '  Inheritor  and  Economist,'  '  Dublin  :  a  Satire  after  Juvenal,' 
'  Westminster  Abbey,'  and  his  '  Cromlech  on  Howth,'  exquisitely  illustrated 
and  illuminated  with  initial  letters  from  the  Book  of  Kells  by  his  friend 
Miss  Margaret  Stokes.  Ferguson  published  his  epic  CONGAL  (founded 
on  the  ancient  bardic  tale  of  the  Battle  of  Moy-  Rath)—  which  he  himself 
considered  his  magnum  opus-'m  1872,  though  a  subsequent  volume  of 
poems  containing  '  Conary  '  and  '  Deirdre  '  and  '  The  Naming  of  Cu- 
chullin,'  and  published  in  1880,  has  met  with  more  popular  acceptance. 
A  small  book,  SHAKESPEREAN  BREVIATES—  condensations  of  some  of 
Shakespere's  plays  for  the  use  of  Shakespere  Reading  Societies,  the  broken 
plots  being  skilfully  woven  together,  with  explanatory  verses  —  was  also 
brought  out  during  Ferguson's  lifetime.  Two  posthumously  published 
volumes  are  OGHAM  INSCRIPTIONS  IN  IRELAND,  WALES,  AND  SCOTLAND, 
and  THE  REMAINS  OF  ST.  PATRICK,  a  verse  rendition  of  the  writings  of 
our  national  saint.  LAYS  OF  THE  RED  BRANCH,  published  after  his  death 
by  Lady  Ferguson,  is  a  collection  from  different  volumes  of  all  the  poems 
dealing  with  the  Conorian  cycle  of  Irish  heroic  literature,  arranged  in 
historical  order  and  furnished  with  an  historical  introduction. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  after  an  illness  of  some  months'  duration  —  a  failure 
of  the  heart's  action  —  passed  away  on  August  9,  1886,  at  Shand  Lodge, 
Howth.  His  personal  popularity,  attested  to  by  many  friendships  formed 
through  life  amongst  old  and  young  of  every  persuasion  and  party,  was 
confirmed  at  his  death  by  the  commingling  of  all  classes  and  creeds  a1. 
his  funeral  as  it  passed  to  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral.  For  thither,  besides 

U 


290  BOOK  IV 


many  private  friends,  followed  the  officers  and  members  of  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy,  with  their  mace  draped  in  crape  for  their  dead  President ;  whilst 
the  staff  of  the  Record  Office,  down  to  the  humblest  workman  connected 
with  it,  joined  the  procession. 

The  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  Lord  Plunket,  delivered  a  touching  address 
after  the  service,  which  contained  these  words  :  '  Do  we  not  all  feel  that 
by  the  death  of  our  dear  brother  departed  in  the  Lord  we  have  all  of  us  as 
Irishmen  suffered  an  irreparable  loss  ?  In  whatever  light  we  may  regard 
the  character  of  him  who  has  been  taken  from  us— whether  as  a  scholar,  a 
poet,  or  a  patriot,  or  a  God-fearing  servant  of  his  Master— we  must  all 
feel  that  Ireland  has  suffered  a  loss  which  it  will  be  impossible  to  repair,  and 
which  cannot  be  confined  merely  to  those  who  belong  to  any  one  class  or 
any  one  creed  amongst  us. ' 


SELECTIONS  FROM  '  CONGAL,'  WITH  AN  ARGUMENT 

The  Pagan  Prince.  Congal  (7th  century  A.D.  ),  son  of  the  famous  Scallan 
Broadshield,  by  his  prowess  sets  Domnal  on  the  throne  of  Erin  under 
promise  to  restore  him  his  ancestral  realm  of  Ulster,  which  had  been  in 
great  part  torn  from  his  forefathers  by  other  sub- Kings.  Domnal  tem- 
porises, and  only  restores  Congal  part  of  this  territory.  Congal  is  bound  to 
Domnal  by  fosterage,  and  desires  peace  for  a  tender  reason,  being  betrothed 
to  Lafinda,  Princess  of  Donn,  who  has  been  brought  up  a  Christian  by  the 
nuns  of  St.  Brigid.  But  Congal,  who  is  of  an  imperious  nature,  takes 
umbrage  at  what  he  believes  to  be  an  insult  offered  to  him  by  King  Domnal 
at  a  royal  banquet  at  Dunangay.  He  breaks  from  the  feast,  followed  by  his 
Ulster  champions,  and  seeks  his  uncle  Kellach  in  the  mountains  of  Mourne. 
Here  lived  that  implacable  old  Pagan,  surrounded  by  all  that  were  left  of  the 
great  company  of  the  lords  of  Erin,  who  as  heathens  had  been  condemned 
and  banished  at  the  synod  of  Drumkeat  under  King  Aed,  Domnal's  father. 
Kellach  hails  his  insulted  nephew  with  delight,  and  successfully  urges  him 
to  seek  assistance  from  the  Kings  of  Scotland  and  Wales.  But  before 
starting  Congal  visits  Lafinda  : — 

The  Princess  with  her  women-train  without  the  fort  he  found, 

Beside  a  limpid  running  stream,  upon  the  primrose  ground  ; 

In  two  ranks  seated  opposite,  with  soft  alternate  stroke 

Of  bare,  white,  counter-thrusting  feet,  fulling  a  splendid  cloak 

Fresh  from  the  loom  :  incessant  rolled  athwart  the  fluted  board 

The  thick  web  fretted,  while  two  maids,  with  arms  uplifted,  poured 

Pure  water  on  it  diligently,  and  to  their  moving  feet 

In  answering  verse  they  sang  a  chaunt  of  cadence  clear  and  sweet. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  291 


Princess  Lafinda  stood  beside — her  feet  in  dainty  shoes 

Laced  softly,  and  her  graceful  limbs  in  robes  of  radiant  hues 

Clad  delicately,  keeping  time  :  on  boss  of  rushes  made, 

Old  muse  Levarcam  near  them  sat,  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade. 

A  grave  experienced  woman  she,  of  reverend  years,  to  whom 

Well  known  were  both  the  ends  of  life — the  cradle  and  the  tomb  — 

Whose  withered  hands  had  often  smoothed  the  wounded  warrior's 

bed, 
Bathed  many  new-born  babes,  and  closed  the  eyes  of  many  dead. 

The  merry  maidens,  when  they  spied  the   warlike   King  in 

view, 

Beneath  their  robes  in  modest  haste  their  gleaming  feet  withdrew 
And  laughing  all  surceased  their  task.     Lafinda  blushing  stood, 
Elate  with  conscious  joy  to  see  so  soon  again  renewed 
A  converse— ah,  how  sweet  compared  with  that  of  nurse  or  maid  ! 
But  soon  her  joy  met  cruel  check. 

Congal  tells  how  he  has  been  insulted,  that  war  is  imminent,  and  that 
their  approaching  marriage  must  await  its  issue. 

She  endeavours  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose,  but  Congal  is 
inexorable.  He  obtains  hoped-for  aid  from  abroad,  and  with  a  vast  fleet 
of  auxiliaries  sets  sail  for  Erin.  But  evil  omens  await  him,  and  at  first 
affright  his  allies.  But  the  invading  host,  re-inspirited,  marches  inland  and 
pitches  its  tents  for  the  night,  but  they  get  no  rest  in  their  encampment. 
Mananan  the  Sea-God,  figured  as  the  Warder  of  Erin,  marches  round  and 
round  the  encamping  army  of  invaders  : 

For  all  the  night  around  their  echoing  camp 
Was  heard  continuous  from  the  hills  a  sound  as  of  the  tramp 
Of  giant  footsteps  ;  but  so  thick  the  white  mist  lay  around, 
None  saw  the  Walker  save  the  King.     He,  starting  at  the  sound, 
Called  to  his  foot  his  fierce  red  hound  ;  athwart  his  shoulders  cast 
A  shaggy  mantle,  grasped  his  spear,  and  through  the  moonlight 

passed 

Alone  up  dark  Ben-Boli's  heights,  towards  which,  above  the  woods 
With  sound  as  when  at  close  of  eve  the  noise  of  falling  floods 
Is  borne  to  shepherd's  ear  remote  on  stilly  upland  lawn, 
The  steps  along  the  mountain-side  with  hollow  fall  came  on. 
Fast  beat  the  hero's  heart ;  and  close  down-crouching  by  his  knee 
Trembled   the   hound,  while  through  the  haze,  huge  as  through 

mists  at  sea 

U2 


292  BOOK  IV 


The  week-long  sleepless  mariner  descries  some  mountain-cape, 
Wreck-infamous,  rise  on  his  lee,  appeared  a  monstrous  Shape, 
Striding  impatient,  like  a  man  much  grieved,  who  walks  alone, 
Considering  of  a  cruel  wrong  ;  down  from  his  shoulders  thrown 
A  mantle,  skirted  stiff  with  soil  splashed  from  the  miry  ground, 
At  every  stride  against  his  calves  struck  with  as  loud  rebound 
As  makes  the  mainsail  of  a  ship  brought  up  along  the  blast, 
When  with  the  coil  of  all  its  ropes  it  beats  the  sounding  mast 
So,  striding  vast,  the  giant  passed  ;  the  King  held  fast  his  breath — 
Motionless,  save  his  throbbing  heart ;  and  chill  and  still  as  death 
Stood  listening  while,  a  second  time,  the  giant  took  the  round 
Of  all  the  camp  :  but  when  at  length,  for  the  third  time,  the  sound 
Came  up,  and  through  the  parting  haze  a  third  time  huge  and  dim 
Rose  out  the  Shape,  the  valiant  hound  sprang  forth  and  challenged 

him. 

And  forth,  disdaining  that  a  dog  should  put  him  so  to  shame, 
Sprang  Congal,  and  essayed  to  speak  :  '  Dread  Shadow,  stand  ! 

Proclaim 
What  wouldst   thou,  that  thou  thus  all  night  around  my  camp 

shouldst  keep 

Thy  troublous  vigil,  banishing  the  wholesome  gift  of  sleep 
From  all  our  eyes,  who,  though  inured  to  dreadful  sounds  and 

sights 

By  land  and  sea,  have  never  yet  in  all  our  perilous  nights 
Lain  in  the  ward  of  such  a  guard.' 

The  Shape  made  answer  none, 

But  with  stern  wafture  of  its  hand  went  angrier  striding  on, 
Shaking  the  earth  with  heavier  steps.     Then  Congal  on  his  track 
Sprang  fearless. 

'Answer  me,  thou  churl ! '  he  cried.     '  I  bid  thee  back  ! ' 
But  while  he  spoke  the  giant's  cloak  around  his  shoulders  grew 
Like  to  a  black  bulged  thunder-cloud,  and  sudden  out  there  flew 
From  all  its  angry  swelling  folds,  with  uproar  unconfined, 
Direct  against  the  King's  pursuit,  a  mighty  blast  of  wind. 
Loud  flapped  the  mantle  tempest-lined,  while  fluttering  down  the 

gale, 

As  leaves  in  autumn,  man  and  hound  were  swept  into  the  vale ; 
And,  heard  o'er  all  the  huge  uproar,  through  startled  Dalaray 
The  giant  went,  with  stamp  and  clash,  departing  south  away. 


SJK  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  293 


At  the  ford  of  Moy-Linny  they  encounter  a  still  more  terrible  spectre, 
the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 

Mid-leg  deep  she  stood 

Beside  a  heap  of  heads  and  limbs  that  swam  in  oozing  blood, 
Whereon,  and  on  a  glittering  heap  of  raiment  rich  and  brave, 
With  swift,  pernicious  hands  she  scooped  and  poured  the  crimson 
wave. 

Congal  addresses  her : 

Who  art  thou,  hideous  one  ?    And  from  what  curst  abode 
Comest  thou  thus  in  open  day  the  hearts  of  men  to  freeze  ? 
And  whose  lopped  heads  and  severed  limbs  and  bloody  vests  are 

these  ? ' 

'  I  am  the  Washer  of  the  Ford,3  she  answered  ;  '  and  my  race 
Is  of  the  Tuath  de  Danann  line  of  Magi ;  and  my  place 
For  toil  is  in  the  running  streams  of  Erin  ;  and  my  cave 
For  sleep  is  in  the  middle  of  the  shell-heaped  cairn  of  Maev, 
High  up  on  haunted  Knocknarea; '  and  this  fine  carnage-heap 
Before  me,  and  these  silken  vests  and  mantles  which  I  steep 
Thus  in  the  running  waters,  are  the  severed  heads  and  hands 
And  spear-torn  scarfs  and  tunics  of  these  gay-dressed,  gallant 

bands 
Whom  thou,  O  Congal !  leadest  to  death.     And  this,'  the   Fury 

said, 

Uplifting  by  the  clotted  locks  what  seemed  a  dead  man's  head, 
*  Is  thine  own  head,  O  Congal  ! ' 

The  two  foregoing  passages  may  stand  as  types  of  the  manner  in  which 
Ferguson  has  fitted  the  English  language  to  the  wild  shapes  of  Gaelic 
mythology,  and  re-peopled  the  imaginative  world  of  the  Irish  people  with 
the  divine  and  mysterious  figures  that  faded  from  it  with  the  loss  of  the 
ancient  tongue.  After  these  episodes  there  follows  an  affecting  but  vain 
attempt  on  the  part  of  Larinda  and  the  spirit  of  St.  Brigid  to  turn  Congal 
from  his  hostile  purpose.  He  marches  to  battle  against  King  Domnal  and 
his  Irish  hosts.  One  after  another  of  the  contending  champions  falls  n 
single  combat  with  a  rival  hero,  till  the  Christian  champion,  Prince  Conal, 
encounters  Congal  himself.  After  a  fierce  struggle  Conal  prevails,  but 
Congal  is  rescued  from  him — only  to  fall,  by  a  strange  irony  of  fate,  by  an 

1  This  huge  cairn  on  the  mountain  of  Knocknarea,  overlooking  the 
town  of  Sligo,  is  a  landmark  visible  for  many  leagues  around. 


294  BOOK  IV 


unexpected  stroke  of  the  idiot  Prince  Cuanna.  This  is  the  beginning  of 
the  end.  Congal  fights  on,  though  his  life-blood  is  flowing  fast,  until  his 
fall  causes  the  panic  and  flight  of  the  Pagan  forces. 

Then  dire  was  their  disorder,  as  the  wavering  line  at  first 
Swayed  to  and  fro  irresolute  ;  then,  all  disrupted,  burst 
Like  waters  from  a  broken  dam  effused  upon  the  plain, 
The  shelter  of  Kilultagh's  woods  and  winding  glens  to  gain. 

A  fine  episode  is  here  introduced.  Kellach,  the  old  paralysed  Pagan 
Bard,  who  has  been  watching  the  battle  from  his  tolg  or  litter,  upraised  on  a 
hill,  cannot  fly  with  the  '  heavy-rolling  tide  of  ruin  and  despair  '  which 
streams  past  him. 

But  keen-eyed  Domnal,  when  he  stood  to  view  the  rout,  ere  long 
Spying  that  white,  unmoving  head  amid  the  scattering  throng, 
Exclaimed  :  '  Of  all  their  broken  host  one  only  man  I  see 
Not  flying  ;  and  I  therefore  judge  him  impotent  to  be 
Of  use  of  limb.     '  Go  :  take  alive,'  he  cried,  '  and  hither  fetch 
The  hoary-haired  unmoving  man          .     .     .' 

.     .     A  swift  battalion  went 
And,   breaking   through   the   hindmost   line,    where    Kellach   sat 

hard  by, 

Took  him  alive  ;  and,  chair  and  man  uphoisting  shoulder-high, 
They  bore  him  back,  his  hoary  locks  and  red  eyes  gleaming  far, 
The  grimmest  standard  yet  displayed  that  day  o'er  all  the  war ; 
And  grimly,  where  they  set  him  down,  he  eyed  the  encircling  ring 
Of  Bishops  and  of  chafing  Chiefs  who  stood  about  the  King. 

Then,    with  his  crozier's  nether  end  turned  towards  him, 

Bishop  Ere 

Said  :  '  Wretch  abhorred,  to  thee  it  is  we  owe  this  bloody  work  ; 
By  whose  malignant  counsel  moved,  thy  hapless  nephew  first 
Sought  impious  aid  of  foreigners  ;  for  which  be  thou  accurst.' 
And  turned  and  left  them. 

Senach  then  approaching,  mildly  said  : 

'  No  curse  so  strong  but  in  the  blood  for  man's  redemption  shed 
May  man  dissolve  ;  arjd  also  thou,  unhappy,  if  thou  wilt 
Mayst  purchase  peace  and  pardon  now,  and  every  stain  of  guilt 
That  soils  thy  soul  may'st  wash  away,  if  but  with  heart  sincere 
Thou  wilt  repent  thee  and  embrace  the  heavenly  boon  which  here 
I  offer.' 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  295 

*  Speak  him  louder,  sir,'  said  harsher  Ronan  Finn. 
*  Kellach,  repent  thy  sins,'  he  cried  ;  *  and  presently  begin, 
For  few  the  moments  left  thee  now  ;  and,  ere  the  hour  be  past, 
Thy  lot  may,  for  eternity,  in  heaven  or  hell  be  cast.' 

'  Repent  thy  sins,'  said  Domnal,  '  and  implore  the  Church's 

grace  ; 
So  shall  thy  life  be  spared  thee  yet  a  little  breathing-space.' 

Then  Kellach  from  the  Bishops'  gaze  withdrew  his  wavering 

glance, 

And,  fixing  his  fast-glazing  eyes  on  Domnal's  countenance, 
Said  :  '  I  am  old,  and  mainly  deaf ;  and  much  of  what  they  say 
I  hear  not.     But  I  tell  thee  this  :  we'd  not  be  here  to-day 
But  for  this  trick  of  cursing,  wherein  much  more  expert 
Are  these  front  shaven  Druids  than  in  any  manly  art.' 

'Injurious  Kellach,'  said  the  King,  'beware  the  chastening  rod 
The  Church  of  Christ  reserves  for  those  who  mock  the  priests  of 
God.' 

'  Of  no  good  God  are  these  the  priests,'  said  Kellach  ;  'and, 

for  me, 

I  ne'er  sought  evil  Spirit's  aid  'gainst  any  enemy  : 
But  what  I've  learned  in  bitter  times  among  my  noble  peers, 
That  I  have  practised  and  upheld  for  well-nigh  fourscore  years  ; 
And  never  asked  from  clerk  or  witch,  by  sacrifice  or  charm, 
To  buy  a  demon's  venal  help  to  aid  my  own  right  arm : 
But  in  my  house  good  Poets,  men  expert  in  song  and  lay, 
I've  kept  in  bounteous  sort,  to  teach  my  sons  the  prosperous  way 
Of  open  truth  and  manliness  :  for  ever  since  the  time 
When  Cathbad  smothered  Usnach's  sons  in  that  foul  sea  of  slime 
Raised  by  abominable  spells  at  Creeveroe's  bloody  gate 
Do  ruin  and  dishonour  still  on  priest-led  Kings  await. 
Wherefore,  by  Fergus,  son  of  Roy,  ere  that  year  passed  away, 
Emania  was  left  bare  and  black  ;  and  so  lies  at  this  day  : 
And  thou  in  desert  Tara  darest  not  thyself  to  dwell, 
Since  that  other  bald  magician,  of  Lorrah,  from  his  bell 
Shook  out  his  maledictions  on  the  unoffending  hill.' 

Said  Domnal  :  *  By  my  valour,  old  man,  thou  doest  ill, 
Comparing  blessed  saints  of  Christ  with  Pagan  priests  of  Crom.' 

'Crom  or  whomever  else  they  serve,'  said  Kellach  ;  'them 
that  come 


296  BOOK  IV 


Cursing,  I  curse.' 

Then  Ronan  Finn,  upheaving  high  his  bell, 

Rang  it,  and  gave  the  banning  word  ;  and  Kellach  therewith  fell 
Off  his  tolg  side  upon  the  ground,  stone  dead.  The  Poets  there 
Next  night,  in  secret,  buried  him  upon  his  brazen  chair. 

Brass-armed  complete  for  standing  fight,  in  Cahir- Laery, 

wall, 

Sun-smitten  Laery,1  rampart-tomb'd,  awaits  the  judgment-call, 
Facing  the  Leinstermen.     Years  roll,  and  Leinster  is  no  more 
The  dragon-den  of  hostile  men  it  was  in  days  of  yore  ; 
Still,  constant  till  the  day  of  doom,  while  the  great   stone-work 

lasts, 
Laery   stands    listening   for  the   trump,   at   whose   wall-bursting 

blasts 

He  leaps  again  to  fire  thy  plain,  O  Lififey,  with  the  glare 
Of  that  dread  golden-bordered  shield.     Thus  ever,  on  his  chair, 
Kellach  awaits,  from  age  to  age,  the  coming  of  the  time 
Will  bring  the  cursers  and  the  curs'd  before  the  Judge  sublime. 

Congal  has  meantime  been  whirled  from  the  flying  host  by  the  giant 
Warder,  Mananan,  who  figures  strangely  and  dimly  in  the  background  of 
the  tale  both  as  the  protector  of  Erin  and  the  patron  of  heroes.  True  to  the 
Irish  conception  of  the  supernatural,  he  remains  as  a  rule  half  merged  in 
Nature — not  completely  disengaged  from  it,  and  taking  firm  and  distinct 
shape  like  a  Greek  deity,  but  rather  communicating  to  what  is  natural  and 
visible  the  sense  of  the  divinity  behind  it.  Congal  finds  himself  in  his 
native  vale  in  Antrim,  and  laments  his  shame  and  grief : 

'But  more  than  for  myself  I  mourn  my  generous  friends  deceived, 
And  all  their  wives  and  little  ones  of  lord  and  sire  bereaved.' 
Tears,  sent  from  whence  the  thought  had  come— let  faith  divine 

their  source — 
Rose  at  the  thought  to  Congal's  eyes,  and  pressed  with  tender 

force 

1  Laoghaire  MacNeill,  King  of  Ireland  in  the  days  of  St.  Patrick,  had 
made  a  peace  with  the  Leinstermen  and  ratified  it  with  a  vow  by  the  Sun  and 
Wind.  When  he  broke  his  compact,  say  the  chroniclers,  the  Sun  and  Wind 
slew  him.  He  desired  to  be  buried,  standing  and  armed,  in  the  rampart  of 
his  cahir  or  fort,  with  his  face  towards  Leinster. 


S/K  SAMUEL   FERGUSON  297 

Unwonted  passage  ;  and  he  wept,  with  many  bitter  sighs 

In  sudden  vision  of  his  life  and  all  its  vanities. 

As  when  a  tempest— which  all  day,  with  whirlwind,  fire,  and  hail 

Vexing  mid-air,  has  hid  the  sight  of  sunshine  from  the  vale — 

Towards  sunset  rolls  its  thunderings  ;  fast  as  it  mounts  on  high, 

A  flood  of  placid  light  refills  the  lately  troubled  sky ; 

Shine  all  the  full  down-sliding  streams,  wet  blades,  and  quivering 

sprays, 

And  all  the  grassy-sided  vales  with  emerald  lustre  blaze  ; 
So,  in  the  shower  of  Congal's  tears,  his  storms  of  passion  passed, 
So  o'er  his  long-distempered  soul  came  tranquil  light  at  last. 

Ere  wonder  in  his  calming  mind  had  found  reflection's  aid, 
There  came  across  the  daisied  lawn  a  veiled  religious  maid, 
From  wicket  of  a  neighbouring  close  ;  and,  as  she  nearer  drew, 
The  peerless  gesture  and  the  grace  indelible  he  knew. 

Then  follows  a  tender  and  touching  conversation  with  Lafinda,  after 
which  a  marvellous  vision  rises  before  the  sight  of  Congal—  Mananan,  with 
his  mantle  flashing  like  a  summer  sea,  now  appearing,  not  in  anger,  but  as 
a  symbol  of  peace  and  regeneration  for  the  distracted  land. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  soft  rustling  sounds  to  all  their  ears  were 

borne, 

Such  as  warm  winds  at  eve  excite  'mongst  brown-ripe  rolling  corn. 
All,  but  Lafinda,  looked  ;  but  she,  behind  a  steadfast  lid, 
Kept  her  calm  eyes  from  that  she  deemed  a  sight  unholy,  hid. 
And  Congal  reck'd  not  if  the  Shape  that  passed  before  his  eyes 
Lived  only  on  the  inward  film,  or  outward  'neath  the  skies. 

No  longer  soiled  with  stain  of  earth,  what  seemed  his  mantle 

shone 

Rich  with  innumerable  hues  refulgent,  such  as  one 
Beholds,  and  thankful-hearted  he,  who  casts  abroad  his  gaze 
O'er  some  rich  tillage-countryside  when  mellow  Autumn  days 
Gild  all  the  sheafy  foodful  stocks  ;  and  broad  before  him  spread — 
He  looking  landward  from  the  brow  of  some  great  sea-cape's  head, 
Bray  or  Ben-Edar— sees  beneath,  in  silent  pageant  grand, 
Slow  fields  of  sunshine  spread  o'er  fields   of  rich,  corn-bearing 

land; 

Red  glebe  and  meadow-margin  green  commingling  to  the  view 
With  yellow  stubble,  browning  woods,  and  upland  tracts  of  blue  ;— 


298  BOOK  IV 


Then,  sated  with  the  pomp  of  fields,  turns,  seaward,  to  the  verge 
Where,  mingling  with  the  murmuring  wash  made  by  the  far-down 

surge, 

Comes  up  the  clamorous  song  of  birds  unseen,  that,  low  beneath, 
Poised  off  the  rock,  ply  underfoot ;    and,  'mid   the   blossoming 

heath, 
And   mint-sweet   herb   that   loves   the    ledge   rare-air'd,   at   ease 

reclined, 

Surveys  the  wide  pale-heaving  floor  crisped  rjy  a  curling  wind ; 
With  all  its  shifting,  shadowy  belts,  and  chasing  scopes  of  green, 
Sun-strown,  foam-freckled,  sail-embossed,  and  blackening  squalls 

between, 

And  slant,  cerulean-skirted  showers  that  with  a  drowsy  sound, 
Heard  inward,  of  ebullient  waves,  stalk  all  the  horizon  round  ; 
And — haply,  being  a  citizen  just  'scaped  from  some  disease 
That  long  has   held   him  sick   indoors,  now,  in   the  brine-fresh 

breeze, 
Health-salted,  bathes  ;  and  says,  the  while  he  breathes  reviving 

bliss, 

'  I  am  not  good  enough,  O  God,  nor  pure  enough  for  this  ! ' — 
Such  seemed  its  hues.     His  feet  were  set  in  fields  of  waving  grain  ; 
His  head,  above,  obscured  the  sun  :  all  round  the  leafy  plain 
Blackbird  and  thrush  piped  loud  acclaims  :  in  middle  air,  breast- 
high, 

The  lark  shrill  carolled  ;  overhead,  and  halfway  up  the  sky, 
Sailed  the  far  eagle  :  from  his  knees,  down  dale  and  grassy  steep, 
Thronged  the  dun,  mighty  upland  droves,  and  mountain-mottling 

sheep, 

And  by  the  river-margins  green,  and  o'er  the  thymy  meads 
Before  his  feet,  careered,  at  large,  the  slim-knee'd,  slender  steeds, 
It  passed.     Light  Sweeny,  as  it  passed,  went  also  from  their 

view  : 

And,  conscious  only  of  her  task,  Lafinda  bent  anew 
At  Congal's  side.     She  bound  his  wounds,  and  asked  him,  '  Has 

thy  heart 
At  all  repented  of  its  sins,  unhappy  that  thou  art  ? ' 

'  My  sins,'  said  Congal,  'and  my  deeds  of  strife  and  blood- 
shed seem 
No  longer  mine,  but  as  the  shapes  and  shadows  of  a  dream  : 


SAMUEL   FERGUSON  299 


And  I  myself,  as  one  oppressed  with  sleep's  deceptive  shows, 
Awaking  only  now  to  life,  when  life  is  at  its  close.' 

*  Oh,  grant,'  she  cried,  with  tender  joy,  '  Thou,  who  alone 

canst  save, 
That  this  awaking  be  to  light  and  life  beyond  the  grave  !  ' 

'Twas   then   the   long-corroded   links   of  life's    mysterious 

chain 
Snapped  softly  ;  and  his  mortal  change  passed  upon  Congal  Claen. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  KING  CoRMAc1 

'CROM  CRUACH  and  his  sub-gods  twelve/ 
Said  Cormac,  '  are  but  carven  treene  ; 

The  axe  that  made  them,  haft  or  helve, 
Had  worthier  of  our  worship  been. 

*  But  He  who  made  the  tree  to  grow 

And  hid  in  earth  the  iron-stone, 
And  made  the  man  with  mind  to  know 

The  axe's  use,  is  God  alone.' 

Anon  to  priests  of  Crom  was  brought  — 
Where,  girded  in  their  service  dread, 

They  minister^  on  red  Moy  Slaught  — 
Word  of  the  words  King  Cormac  said. 

They  loosed  their  curse  against  the  King  — 
They  cursed  him  in  his  flesh  and  bones  — 

And  daily  in  their  mystic  ring 

They  turn'd  the  maledictive  stones, 

Till,  where  at  meat  the  monarch  sate, 

Amid  the  revel  and  the  wine, 
He  choked  upon  the  food  he  ate, 

At  Sletty,  southward  of  the  Boyne. 


1  There  is  a  Christian  legend  which  tells  that  Cormac  MacArt,  who 
ruled  Ireland  in  the  third  century,  had  an  early  intuition  of  the  true  faith 
and  turned  away  from  Paganism.  Thereupon  the  priests  of  the  great  idol 
Crom  Cruach  cursed  him,  and  he  died,  but  charged  that  he  should  be  buried 
at  Rosnaree,  and  not  at  the  great  royal  cemetery  of  Brugh  (Newgrange)  ; 
which  came  about  as  the  poem  relates. 


300  BOOK  IV 


High  vaunted  then  the  priestly  throng, 
And  far  and  wide  they  noised  abroad, 

With  trump  and  loud  liturgic  song, 
The  praise  of  their  avenging  god. 

But  ere  the  voice  was  wholly  spent 

That  priest  and  prince  should  still  obey, 

To  awed  attendants  o'er  him  bent 

Great  Cormac  gather'd  breath  to  say  : 

'  Spread  not  the  beds  of  Brugh  for  me 
When  restless  death-bed's  use  is  done  ; 

But  bury  me  at  Rosnaree, 

And  face  me  to  the  rising  sun. 

'  For  all  the  Kings  who  lie  in  Brugh 
Put  trust  in  gods  of  wood  and  stone  ; 

And  'twas  at  Ross  that  first  I  knew 
One,  Unseen,  who  is  God  alone. 

(  His  glory  lightens  from  the  East  ; 

His  message  soon  shall  reach  our  shore  ; 
And  idol-god  and  cursing  priest 

Shall  plague  us  from  Moy  Slaught  no  more. 

Dead  Cormac  on  his  bier  they  laid. 

'  He  reign'd  a  king  for  forty  years, 
And  shame  it  were,'  his  captains  said, 

'  He  lay  not  with  his  royal  peers. 

'  His  grandsire,  Hundred-Battle,  sleeps 
Serene  in  Brugh  ;  and  all  around 

Dead  kings  in  stone  sepulchral  keeps 
Protect  the  sacred  burial  ground. 

*  What  though  a  dying  man  should  rave 
Of  changes  o'er  the  Eastern  sea  ? 

In  Brugh  of  Boyne  shall  be  his  grave, 
And  not  in  noteless  Rosnaree.' 


SAMUEL  FERGUSON  301 


Then  northward  forth  they  bore  the  bier 
And  down  from  Sletty  side  they  drew, 

With  horseman  and  with  charioteer, 
To  cross  the  fords  of  Boyne  to  Brugh. 

There  came  a  breath  of  finer  air, 

That  touch'd  the  Boyne  with  ruffling  wings  ; 
It  stiriM  him  in  his  sedgy  lair, 

And  in  his  mossy  moorland  springs. 

And  as  the  burial  train  came  down 

With  dirge  and  savage  dolorous  shows, 

Across  their  pathway,  broad  and  brown, 
The  deep  full-hearted  river  rose  ; 

From  bank  to  bank  through  all  his  fords, 
'Neath  blackening  squalls  he  swell'd  and  boil'd, 

And  thrice  the  wondering  Gentile  lords 
Essay'd  to  cross,  and  thrice  recoil'd. 

Then  forth  stepp'd  grey-hair'd  warriors  four  ; 

They  said  :  *  Through  angrier  floods  than  these 
On  link'd  shields  once  our  King  we  bore 

From  Dread-Spear  and  the  hosts  of  Deece. 

*  And  long  as  loyal  will  holds  good, 
And  limbs  respond  with  helpful  thews, 

Nor  flood,  nor  fiend  within  the  flood, 
Shall  bar  him  of  his  burial  dues.' 

With  slanted  necks  they  stoop'd  to  lift  ; 

They  heaved  him  up  to  neck  and  chin  ; 
And,  pair  and  pair,  with  footsteps  swift, 

Lock'd  arm  and  shoulder,  bore  him  in. 

Twas  brave  to  see  them  leave  the  shore  ; 

To  mark  the  deep'ning  surges  rise, 
And  fall  subdued  in  foam  before 

The  tension  of  their  striding  thighs. 


302  BOOK  IV 


'Twas  brave,  when  now  a  spear-cast  out, 
Breast-high  the  battling  surges  ran  ; 

For  weight  was  great,  and  limbs  were  stout 
And  loyal  man  put  trust  in  man. 

But  ere  they  reach'd  the  middle  deep, 
Nor  steadying  weight  of  clay  they  bore, 

Nor  strain  of  sinewy  limbs  could  keep 
Their  feet  beneath  the  swerving  four. 

And  now  they  slide,  and  now  they  swim, 
And  now,  amid  the  blackening  squall, 

Grey  locks  afloat,  with  clutchings  grim, 
They  plunge  around  the  floating  pall  ; 

While  as  a  youth  with  practised  spear 

Through  justling  crowds  bears  off  the  ring, 

Boyne  from  their  shoulders  caught  the  bier 
And  proudly  bore  away  the  king. 

At  morning,  on  the  grassy  marge 
Of  Rosnaree,  the  corpse  was  found  ; 

And  shepherds  at  their  early  charge 
Entomb'd  it  in  the  peaceful  ground. 

A  tranquil  spot — a  hopeful  sound 

Comes  from  the  ever  youthful  stream, 

And  still  on  daisied  mead  and  mound 
The  dawn  delays  with  tenderer  beam 

Round  Cormac  Spring  renews  her  buds  ; 

In  march  perpetual  by  his  side, 
Down  come  the  earth-fresh  April  floods, 

And  up  \he  sea-fresh  salmon  glide. 

And  life  und  time  rejoicing  run 

From  age  to  age  their  wonted  way  ; 

But  still  he  waits  the  risen  Sun, 
For  still  'tis  only  dawning  Day. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  303 


From  AIDEEN'S  GRAVE  l 

THEY  heaved  the  stone  ;  they  heap'd  the  cairn 
Said  Ossian,  '  In  a  queenly  grave 

We  leave  her,  'mong  her  fields  of  fern, 
Between  the  cliff  and  wave. 

'The  cliff  behind  stands  clear  and  bare, 
And  bare,  above,  the  heathery  steep 

Scales  the  clear  heaven's  expanse,  to  where 
The  Danann  Druids  sleep. 

« And  all  the  sands  that,  left  and  right, 
The  grassy  isthmus-ridge  confine, 

In  yellow  bars  lie  bare  and  bright 
Amid  the  sparkling  brine. 

*A  clear  pure  air  pervades  the  scene, 

In  loneliness  and  awe  secure  ; 
Meet  spot  to  sepulchre  a  Queen 

Who  in  her  life  was  pure. 

*  Here,  far  from  camp  and  chase  removed, 

Apart  in  Nature's  quiet  room, 
The  music  that  alive  she  loved 
Shall  cheer  her  in  the  tomb. 

'The  humming  of  the  noontide  bees, 
The  lark's  loud  carol  all  day  long, 

And,  borne  on  evening's  salted  breeze, 
The  clanking  sea-bird's  song 

*  Shall  round  her  airy  chamber  float, 

And  with  the  whispering  winds  and  streams 
Attune  to  Nature's  tenderest  note 
The  tenor  of  her  dreams. 


1  Aideen  was  the  wife  of  Oscar,  son  of  Oisin,  son  of  Finn.  She  died 
of  grief  after  the  slaying  of  Oscar  and  almost  all  the  Fianna  at  the  battle 
of  Gabhra,  when  the  tribes  of  Ireland  rose  against  them,  and  was  buried 
under  the  great  cromlech  on  Howth. 


3o4  BOOK  IV 


'  And  oft,  at  tranquil  eve's  decline 

When  full  tides  lip  the  Old  Green  Plain, 

The  lowing  of  Moynalty's  kine 
Shall  round  her  breathe  again, 

'In  sweet  remembrance  of  the  days 

When,  duteous,  in  the  lowly  vale, 
Unconscious  of  my  Oscar's  gaze, 

She  fill'd  the  fragrant  pail, 

'And,  duteous,  from  the  running  brook 
Drew  water  for  the  bath  ;  nor  deem'd 

A  King  did  on  her  labour  look, 
And  she  a  fairy  seern'd. 

'  But  when  the  wintry  frosts  begin, 
And  in  their  long-drawn,  lofty  flight, 

The  wild  geese  with  their  airy  din 
Distend  the  ear  of  night  ; 

'And  when  the  fierce  De  Danann  ghosts 
At  midnight  from  their  peak  come  down  ; 

When  all  around  the  enchanted  coasts 
Despairing  strangers  drown  ; 

'  When,  mingling  with  the  wreckful  wail, 
From  low  Clontarf 's  wave-trampled  floor 

Comes  booming  up  the  burthen'd  gale 
The  angry  Sand- Bull's  roar  ; 

'  Or,  angrier  than  the  sea,  the  shout 
Of  Erin's  hosts  in  wrath  combined, 

When  Terror  heads  Oppression's  rout, 
And  Freedom  cheers  behind  : 

'  Then  o'er  our  lady's  placid  dream, 

Where  safe  from  storms  she  sleeps,  may  steal 
Such  joy  as  will  not  misbeseem 

A  queen  of  men  to  feel  : 


SfK  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  305 


'Such  thrill  of  free,  defiant  pride, 

As  rapt  her  in  her  battle  car 
At  Gavra,  when  by  Oscar's  side 

She  rode  the  ridge  of  war, 

Exulting,  down  the  shouting  troops, 
And  through  the  thick  confronting  kings 
With  hands  on  all  their  javelin  loops 
And  shafts  on  all  their  strings ; 

*  Ere  closed  the  inseparable  crowds. 

No  more  to  part  for  me,  and  show, 
As  bursts  the  sun  through  scattering  clouds  ; 
My  Oscar  issuing  so. 

'No  more,  dispelling  battle's  gloom, 
Shall  son  for  me  from  fight  return  ; 

The  great  green  rath's  ten-acred  tomb 
Lies  heavy  on  his  urn. 

'A  cup  of  bodkin-pencilled  clay 

Holds  Oscar  ;  mighty  heart  and  limb 

One  handful  now  of  ashes  grey  : 
And  she  has  died  for  him. 

1  And  here,  hard  by  her  natal  bower 
On  lone  Ben-Edar's  side,  we  strive 

With  lifted  rock  and  sign  of  power 
To  keep  her  name  alive  ; 

*  That  while,  from  circling  year  to  year, 

Her  Ogham-letter'd  stone  is  seen, 
The  Gael  shall  say,  "  Our  Fenians  here 
Entomb'd  their  loved  Aideen." ' 

THE  FAIRY  THORN 

AN   ULSTER   BALLAD 

*  GET  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spinning-wheel  ; 

For  your  father's  on  the  hill,  and  your  mother  is  asleep  ; 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we'll  dance  a  Highland  reel 

Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep.' 

X 


306  BOOK  IV 


At  Anna  Grace's  door  'twas  thus  the  maidens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the  green  ; 

And  Anna  laid  the  rock  and  the  weary  wheel  aside —          « 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the  quiet  eve, 
Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle  bare  ; 

The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song  they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air. 

And  linking  hand  in  hand,  and  singing  as  they  go, 

The  maids  along  the  hillside  have  ta'en  their  fearless  way, 

Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan  trees  in  lonely  beauty  grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  grey. 

The  Hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall  and  slim, 

-Like  matron  with  her  twin  grand-daughters  at  her  knee  ; 
The  rowan  berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  grey  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them  in  a  row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan  stem, 

And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds  they  go — 
Oh,  never  carolled  bird  like  them ! 

But  solemn  is  the  silence  of  the  silvery  haze 

That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  repose, 

And  dreamily  the  evening  has  stilled  the  haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from  the  sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the  open  shaw, 

Are  hushed  the  maidens'  voices,  as  cowering  down  they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from  the  air  above  and  the  grassy  ground  beneath, 

And  from  the  mountain-ashes  and  the  old  White-thorn  bet  ween, 

A  power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through  their  beings  breathe, 
And  they  sink  down  together  on  the  green. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON  307 

They  sink  together  silent,  and,  stealing  side  to  side, 

They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their  drooping  necks  so  fair ; 

Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms  to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasped  and  prostrate  all,  with  their  heads  together  bowed, 
Soft  o'er  their  bosoms  beating — the  only  human  sound — 

They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air  gliding  round. 

Nor  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  prayer  can  any  say, 
But  wild,  wild  the  terror  of  the  speechless  three  ; 

For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently  away — 
By  whom,  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 

They  feel  her  tresses  twine  with  their  parting  locks  of  gold, 
And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  head  withdraws  ; 

They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced  arms  unfold, 
But  they  dare  not  look  to  see  the  cause. 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment  lies 
Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and  perilous  amaze  ; 

And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quivering  eyes, 
Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise. 

Till  out  of  Night  the  Earth  has  rolled  her  dewy  side, 
With  every  haunted  mountain  and  streamy  vale  below  ; 

When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow  morning-tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 

And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends  in  vain  — 

They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 


X2 


308  BOOK  IV 


THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  IRELAND 

FROM   THE    IRISH 

A  very  close  translation,  in  the  original  metre,  of  an  Irish  song  of  unknown 
authorship  dating  from  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  refrain  means 
'  O  sad  l?.ment. ' 

A  PLENTEOUS  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 
Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow  barley  ear, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  / 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  vales  expand, 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters  fann'd ; 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i'  the  yellow  sand 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curl'd  he  is  and  ringleted,  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  Sea, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 

And  I  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but  stand, 
Unto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fragrant  strand, 
And  leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth  and  high  command, 
For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 
The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wondrously  abound, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 

The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand, 
And  the  cuckoo's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland, 
And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i'  the  forests  grand 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

LAMENT  FOR  THOMAS  DAVIS 

I  WALKED  through  Ballinderry  in  the  spring-time, 

When  the  bud  was  on  the  tree  ; 
And  I  said,  in  every  fresh-ploughed  field  beholding 

The  sowers  striding  free, 


SAMUEL  FERGUSON  309 

Scattering  broadcast  forth  the  corn  in  golden  plenty 

On  the  quick  seed-clasping  soil, 
4  Even  such,  this  day,  among  the  fresh-stirred  hearts  of  Erin, 

Thomas  Davis,  is  thy  toil  ! ' 

(  sat  by  Ballyshannon  in  the  summer, 

And  saw  the  salmon  leap  ; 
And  I  said,  as  I  beheld  the  gallant  creatures 

Spring  glittering  from  the  deep, 
Thro'  the  spray,  and  thro'  the  prone  heaps  striving  onward 

To  the  calm  clear  streams  above, 
'  So  seekest  thou  thy  native  founts  of  freedom,  Thomas  Davis, 

In  thy  brightness  of  strength  and  love  ! ' 

I  stood  on  Derrybawn  in  the  autumn, 

And  I  heard  the  eagle  call, 
With  a  clangorous  cry  of  wrath  and  lamentation 

That  filled  the  wide  mountain  hall, 
O'er  the  bare  deserted  place  of  his  plundered  eyrie  ; 

And  I  said,  as  he  screamed  and  soared, 
*  So  callest  thou,  thou  wrathful-soaring  Thomas  Davis, 

For  a  nation's  rights  restored  ! ' 

And,  alas  !  to  think  but  now,  and  thou  art  lying, 

Dear  Davis,  dead  at  thy  mother's  knee  ; 
And  I,  no  mother  near,  on  my  own  sick-bed, 

That  face  on  earth  shall  never  see  : 
I  may  lie  and  try  to  feel  that  I  am  not  dreaming, 

I  may  lie  and  try  to  say,  '  Thy  will  be  done ' — 
But  a  hundred  such  as  I  will  never  comfort  Erin 

For  the  loss  of  the  noble  son  ! 

Young  husbandman  of  Erin's  fruitful  seed-time, 

In  the  fresh  track  of  danger's  plough  ! 
Who  will  walk  the  heavy,  toilsome,  perilous  furrow 

Girt  with  freedom's  seed-sheets  now  ? 
Who  will  banish  with  the  wholesome  crop  of  knowledge 

The  flaunting  weed  and  the  bitter  thorn, 
Now  that  thou  thyself  art  but  a  seed  for  hopeful  planting 

Against  the  Resurrection  morn  ? 


3io  BOOK  IV 


Young  salmon  of  the  flood-tide  of  freedom 

That  swells  round  Erin's  shore  ! 
Thou  wilt  leap  against  their  loud  oppressive  torrent 

Of  bigotry  and  hate  no  more  : 
Drawn  downward  by  their  prone  material  instinct, 

Let  them  thunder  on  their  rocks  and  foam — 
Thou  hast  leapt,  aspiring  soul,  to  founts  beyond  their  raging 

Where  troubled  waters  never  come  ! 

But  I  grieve  not,  eagle  of  the  empty  eyrie, 

That  thy  wrathful  cry  is  still ; 
And  that  the  songs  alone  of  peaceful  mourners 

Are  heard  to-day  on  Erin's  hill  ; 
Better  far,  if  brothers'  war  be  destined  for  us 

(God  avert  that  horrid  day,  I  pray  !), 
That  ere  our  hands  be  stained  with  slaughter  fratricidal 

Thy  warm  heart  should  be  cold  in  clay. 

But  my  trust  is  strong  in  God,  who  made  us  brothers, 

That  He  will  not  suffer  those  right  hands 
Which  thou  hast  joined  in  holier  rites  than  wedlock 

To  draw  opposing  brands. 
Oh,  many  a  tuneful  tongue  that  thou  mad'st  vocal 

Would  lie  cold  and  silent  then  ; 
And  songless  long  once  more,  should  often-widowed  Erin 

Mourn  the  loss  of  her  brave  young  men. 

Oh,  brave  young  men,  my  love,  my  pride,  my  promise, 

'Tis  on  you  my  hopes  are  set, 
In  manliness,  in  kindliness,  in  justice, 

To  make  Erin  a  nation  yet  : 
Self-respecting,  self-relying,  self-advancing, 

In  union  or  in  severance,  free  and  strong — 
And  if  God  grant  this,  then,  under  God,  to  Thomas  Davis 

Let  the  greater  praise  belong. 


BOOK   V 


AUBREY   DE   VERE 

THE  family  of  the  De  Veres  has  followed  high  traditions  in 
English  poetry.  The  influence  of  Wordsworth,  an  intimate 
friend,  is  predominant  in  the  work  of  Sir  Aubrey  and  Mr. 
Aubrey  de  Vere ;  but,  determined  by  the  natural  bent  of 
their  genius,  both  father  and  son  achieved  success  in  a  form 
uncongenial  to  Wordsworth — the  drama ;  while  the  poetic 
faculty  was  never  more  happily  wedded  to  fine  scholarship 
than  in  the  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACE  of  Mr.  De  Vere's 
elder  brother,  Sir  Stephen. 

To  achieve  high  distinction  in  poetry  it  is  before  all  things 
essential  to  maintain  the  balance  between  the  intellectual  and 
sensuous  elements.  Simple  in  theme  and  method,  strong  in 
its  intellectual  apprehension  of  life,  nobly  plain  in  diction,  the 
poetry  of  the  De  Veres  is  deficient  in  the  qualities  which  arrest 
popular  attention ;  it  is  not  sensuous  enough,  it  is  not 
passionate  enough.  Distinguished,  too,  by  moral  breadth  and 
depth  rather  than  by  natural  magic,  it  suffers  amid  the  poetry 
of  the  day  comparative  neglect,  and  finds  a  narrow  though 
appreciative  audience.  It  may  be  claimed  for  it,  and  with 
justice,  that  if  not  throughout  successful  as  art  it  is  nevertheless 
conceived  and  executed  in  the  school  of  the  great  masters  ; 
and  where  successful,  it  is  successful  in  their  manner.  Read 
Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's  SONNETS  or  his  MARY  TUDOR  ;  read 
Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere's  ALEXANDER  or  his  'Autumnal  Ode,' 
and  the  impression  received  is  that  one  is  on  elevated  ground, 
on  the  higher  slopes  of  Parnassus.  We  are  not  spoiled  for 


312  BOOK   V 


this  poetry  by  reading  in  the  books  of  Homer,  of  Dante,  or  of 
Milton. 

^schylus'  bronze-throat,  eagle  bark  for  blood 
Has  somewhat  spoilt  my  taste  for  twitterings — 

says  Browning  somewhere.  The  absence  of  largeness  and 
freedom,  of  far  horizons  and  noble  spaces,  this  we  feel  in  the 
company  of  the  minor  poets,  but  with  the  De  Veres  we  are 
among  the  mountains.  Because  neither  Sir  Aubrey  nor  Mr. 
Aubrey  de  Vere  found  modern  life  rich  in  inspiring  forces,  and 
each  was  touched  less  by  the  ideals  of  the  present  than  by 
those  of  the  past,  perhaps  for  this  reason  and  because  so  much 
of  their  work  is  dramatic  in  form  and  intention  they  have  won  no 
large  share  of  popular  acceptance.  It  is  not  surprising  that  this 
should  be  true  of  poetry  characterised  by  its  singular  aloofness 
from  contemporary  thought  and  feeling,  characterised  by  its 
impersonality,  its  dramatic  method  and  character.  This  is  poetry 
whose  themes  are  not  chosen  at  the  bidding  of  the  poet's  affec- 
tions, but  rather  at  the  bidding  of  his  genius.  And  when  this 
is  said  we  have  placed  it,  in  conception  and  aim  at  least,  in  the 
highest  company.  The  lesser  poet  writes  at  the  dictation  of 
his  moods,  but  for  Lucretius  and  Sophocles  the  sphere  of 
poetry  is  not  delimited  by  the  feelings  that  sway  the  inconstant 
heart,  making  it  an  ^Eolian  lyre  responsive  to  all  idle  winds. 

Not  improbably,  I  think,  Mr.  De  Vere  would  prefer  to 
be  judged  by  his  poems  upon  Irish  subjects  rather  than  by 
any  other  part  of  his  work.  For  in  his  old  Irish  lays,  heroic 
in  theme,  spiritual  in  significance,  and  in  his  poems  which 
enshrine  the  traditions  of  the  Mediaeval  Church,  Mr.  De  Vere  is 
most  at  home  in  spirit,  and  perhaps  is  at  his  best.  Here  he  strikes 
a  note  which  falls  upon  the  ear  with  a  mingled  solemnity  and 
joyousness,  and  seems  to  breathe  the  very  air  of  that  old 
world  of  unconscious  saintliness  and  glad  romance.  Whatever 
of  beauty  or  of  good  dwelt  with  the  ages  that  found  in  religion 
their  joy  as  well  as  their  peace  is  gathered  into  these  legends  ; 
Cuchullin,  Oisin  and  Ethell,  Naisi  and  Deirdre",  look  out 
upon  us  like  the  faces  on  some  old  tapestry,  but  far  more 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  313 

lifelike.  Cuchullin  in  his  war-car,  calling  the  horses  by  their 
well-known  names,  and  dashing  through  Eman's  gateway  as 
a  storm  ;  Ethell,  bard  of  Brian  MacGuire,  who  sang  of  policy 
to  chieftains  and  princes,  of  love  to  maids  in  the  bower,  and 

Of  war  at  the  feastings  in  bawn  or  grove  ; 

the  lovers  Naisi  and  Deirdre,  self-forgetful,  hand  in  hand, 
singing  their  passionate  song  of  life  and  death — these  are  the 
true  children  of  Ireland's  golden  age,  called  from  the  shores  of 
dreamland  to  feed  our  hearts  with  the  poetry  of  a  nation's 
childhood. 

It  may  be  argued  that  the  poetry  of  the  De  Veres  is 
distinctively  English,  formed  by  English  traditions,  the  pro- 
duct of  English  culture.  It  may  be  argued  that  it  belongs 
to  the  classical  school  rather  than  to  the  school  of  romance. 
And  indisputably  in  many  of  Mr.  De  Vere's  finest  and  most 
characteristic  passages  we  feel  that  he  inherits  in  the  line  of 
Chaucer  and  of  Dryden.  Take  this  passage  from  his 
magnificent  '  Autumnal  Ode  : ' 

It  is  the  Autumnal  epode  of  the  year  : 

The  Nymphs  that  urge  the  seasons  on  their  round, 
They  to  whose  green  lap  flies  the  startled  deer 

When  bays  the  far-off  hound, 
They  that  drag  April  by  the  rain- bright  hair, 
Though  sun-showers  doze  her,  and  the  rude  winds  scare, 

O'er  March's  frosty  bound, 

They  by  whose  warm  and  furtive  hand  unwound 
The  cestus  falls  from  May's  new-wedded  breast, 
Silent  they  stand  beside  dead  Summer's  bier, 

With  folded  palms  and  faces  to  the  West, 
And  their  loose  tresses  sweep  the  dewy  ground. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  De  Vere  is  rightly  ranked  with  the 
Irish  poets.  The  profound  sympathy  with  the  Celtic  nature, 
the  insight  into  the  Celtic  heart,  are  there,  and  not  a  few  un- 
mistakable Celtic  affinities,  not  a  little  of  the  Celtic  charm. 
For  some  reason  or  other  the  Celtic  imagination  is  less 
stirred  by  richness  or  picturesqueness  in  Nature  than  the 
Saxon  imagination,  dwells  less  in  its  happiest  moments  upon 


314  BOOK   V 


landscape  luxuriant  in  leaf  and  flower,  the  valley  with  its  lush 
pasture  or  the  promise  of  the  tilled  glebe  ;  it  is  stirred  rather 
by  Nature  in  her  severer  aspects  and  by  landscape  of  fewer 
elements — by  the  austere  outline  of  cliff  or  mountain,  the  pure 
curve  of  the  far  rim  of  ocean.  '  Delightful  to  be  on  Ben 
Eddar,'  sings  Columba  in  some  charming  verses — charming 
even  in  translation — written  fifteen  hundred  years  ago  : 

Delightful  to  be  on  Ben  Eddar 
Before  going  o'er  the  white  sea  ; 
The  dashing  of  the  wave  against  its  face, 
The  bareness  of  its  shore  and  its  border. 

And  in  Celtic  poetry  likewise  the  emotions  are  purer,  less 
complex,  more  elemental,  more  spiritual  than  in  Saxon  poetry. 
Simplicity,  then,  with  full-heartedness — whether  in  joy  or  grief — 
a  childlike  transparency  of  soul,  a  courageous  spirituality,  these 
Celtic  qualities  Mr.  De  Vere's  poetry  preserves  for  us;  and 
because  it  preserves  them  his  memory  and  his  work  are  safe. 
He  will  be  enrolled  as  a  worthy  successor  to  the  bards  of  long 
ago,  from  Oiseen  or 

That  Taliessin  once  who  made  the  rivers  dance, 

And  in  his  rapture  raised  the  mountains  from  their  trance. 

W.  MACNEILE  DIXON. 

Mr.  Aubrey  De  Vere,  third  son  of  Sir  Aubrey,  was  born  at  Curragh 
Chase  in  1814.  Besides  a  number  of  prose  works,  critical  and  miscel- 
laneous, Mr.  De  Vere's  poetical  works  have  been  published  in  six 
volumes,  1884. 

Later  volumes  issued  by  him  have  been  :  LEGENDS  AND  RECORDS  OF 
THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  EMPIRE,  1887  ;  ST.  PETER'S  CHAINS,  1888  ; 
MEDIAEVAL  RECORDS  AND  SONNETS,  1893.  Two  well-edited  volumes  of 
selections  from  his  poetical  writings  have  appeared,  one  by  John  Dennis 
(London,  1890)  and  one  by  G.  E.  Woodberry  (New  York>  1894). 

THE  SUN  GOD 

I  SAW  the  Master  of  the  Sun.     He  stood 

High  in  his  luminous  car,  himself  more  bright — 
An  Archer  of  immeasurable  might  ; 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  315 


On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  quivered  load, 
Spurned  by  his  steeds  the  eastern  mountain  glowed, 

Forward  his  eager  eye  and  brow  of  light 
He  bent ;  and,  while  both  hands  that  arch  embowed, 

Shaft  after  shaft  pursued  the  flying  Night. 
No  wings  profaned  that  godlike  form  ;  around 

His  neck  high  held  an  ever-moving  crowd 
Of  locks  hung  glistening  ;  while  such  perfect  sound 
Fell  from  his  bowstring  that  th'  ethereal  dome 
.    Thrilled  as  a  dewdrop  ;  and  each  passing  cloud 
Expanded,  whitening  like  the  ocean  foam. 


From  THE  BARD  ETHELL 

IRELAND,    THIRTEENTH   CENTURY 

I 

I  AM  Ethell,  the  son  of  Conn  ; 

Here  I  live  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ; 
I  am  clansman  to  Brian  and  servant  to  none  ; 

Whom  I  hated  I  hate,  whom  I  loved  love  still. 
Blind  am  I.     On  milk  I  live, 

And  meat ;  God  sends  it  on  each  Saint's  day, 
Though  Donald  MacArt — may  he  never  thrive  ! — 

Last  Shrovetide  drove  half  my  kine  away. 


At  the  brown  hill's  base,  by  the  pale  blue  lake 

I  dwell,  and  see  the  things  I  saw  ; 
The  heron  flap  heavily  up  frOm  the  brake, 

The  crow  fly  homeward  with  twig  or  straw, 
The  wild  duck,,  a  silver  line  in  wake, 

Cutting  the  calm  mere  to  far  Bunaw. 
And  the  things  that  I  heard,  though  deaf  I  hear : 
From  the  tower  in  the  island  the  feastful  cheer, 
The  horn  from  the  wood,  the  plunge  of  the  stag, 
With  the  loud  hounds  after  him  down  from  the  crag. 
Sweet  is  the  chase,  but  the  battle  is  sweeter; 
More  healthful,  more  joyous,  for  true  men  meeter ! 


3i6  BOOK    V 


in 
My  hand  is  weak  ;  it  once  was  strong. 

My  heart  burns  still  with  its  ancient  fire. 
If  any  man  smite  me,  he  does  me  wrong, 

For  I  was  the  Bard  of  Brian  MacGuire. 
If  any  man  slay  me — not  unaware, 

By  no  chance  blow,  nor  in  wine  and  revel — 
I  have  stored  beforehand  a  curse  in  my  prayer 

For  his  kith  and  kindred  ;  his  deed  is  evil. 

IV 

There  never  was  King,  and  there  never  will  be, 
In  battle  or  banquet  like  Malachi  ! 
The  Seers  his  reign  have  predicted  long  ; 
He  honoured  the  Bards,  and  gave  gold  for  song. 
If  rebels  arose,  he  put  out  their  eyes ; 

If  robbers  plundered  or  burned  the  fanes 
He  hung  them  in  chaplets,  like  rosaries, 

That  others,  beholding,  might  take  more  pains. 
There  was  none  to  woman  more  reverent-minded, 

For  he  held  his  mother  and  Mary  dear  ; 
If  any  man  wronged  them,  that  man  he  blinded, 

Or  straight  amerced  him  of  hand  or  ear. 
There  was  none  who  founded  more  convents — none  : 

In  his  palace  the  old  and  the  poor  were  fed  ; 
The  orphan  walked,  and  the  widow's  son, 

Without  groom  or  page  to  his  throne  or  bed. 
In  council  he  mused  with  great  brows  divine 
And  eyes  like  the  eyes  of  the  musing  kine, 
Upholding  a  Sceptre  o'er  which,  men  said, 
Seven  spirits  of  wisdom  like  fire-tongues  played. 
He  drained  ten  lakes  and  he  built  ten  bridges  ; 

He  bought  a  gold  book  for  a  thousand  cows  ; 
He  slew  ten  Princes  who  brake  their  pledges  ; 

With  the  bribed  and  the  base  he  scorned  to  carouse. 
He  was  sweet  and  awful  ;  through  all  his  reign 
God  gave  great  harvests  to  vale  and  plain  ; 
From  his  nurse's  milk  he  was  kind  and  brave  ; 
And  when  he  went  down  to  his  well-wept  grave 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  317 


Through  the  triumph  of  penance  his  soul  uprose 
To  God  and  the  Saints.     Not  so  his  foes  ! 


The  King  that  came  after  !  ah  !  woe,  woe,  woe  ! 
He  doubted  his  friend  and  he  trusted  his  foe  ; 
He  bought  and  he  sold  ;  his  kingdom  old 

He  pledged  and  pawned  to  avenge  a  spite ; 
No  Bard  or  prophet  his  birth  foretold  ; 

He  was  guarded  and  warded  both  day  and  night : 
He  counselled  with  fools  and  had  boors  at  his  feast ; 
He  was  cruel  to  Christian  and  kind  to  beast ; 
Men  smiled  when  they  talked  of  him  far  o'er  the  wave, 
Well  paid  were  the  mourners  that  wept  at  his  grave. 
God  plagued  for  his  sake  his  people  sore  : 

They  sinned  ;  for  the  people  should  watch  and  pray, 
That  their  prayers— like  angels  at  window  and  door — 

May  keep  from  the  King  the  bad  thought  away  ! 


I  forgive  old  Cathbar,  who  sank  my  boat. 

Must  I  pardon  Feargal,  who  slew  my  son  ; 
Or  the  pirate  Strongbow,  who  burned  Granote, 

They  tell  me,  and  in  it  nine  priests,  a  nun, 
And — worst — Saint  Finian's  crosier  staff  ? 
At  forgiveness  like  that  I  spit  and  laugh. 
My  Chief,  in  his  wine-cups,  forgave  twelve  men  ; 
And  of  these  a  dozen  rebelled  again  ! 
There  never  was  Chief  more  brave  than  he  ! 

The  night  he  was  born  Loch  Gur  up-burst ; 
He  was  Bard-loving,  gift-making,  loud  of  glee, 

The  last  to  fly,  to  advance  the  first ; 
He  was  like  the  top  spray  upon  Uladh's  oak, 

He  was  like  the  tap-root  of  Argial's  pine  ; 
He  was  secret  and  sudden  ;  as  lightning  his  stroke  ; 

There  was  none  that  could  fathom  his  hid  design. 
He  slept  not  :  if  any  man  scorned  his  alliance 
He  struck  the  first  blow  for  a  frank  defiance 


318  BOOK    V 


With  that  look  in  his  face,  half  night,  half  light, 

Like  the  lake  gust-blackened  yet  ridged  with  white. 

There  were  comely  wonders  before  he  died  : 

The  eagle  barked  and  the  Banshee  cried  ; 

The  witch-elm  wept  with  a  blighted  bud  ; 

The  spray  of  the  torrent  was  red  with  blood  ; 

The  Chief,  returned  from  the  mountain's  bound, 

Forgat  to  ask  after  Bran,  his  hound. 

We  knew  he  would  die  ;  three  days  passed  o'er  ; 

He  died.     We  waked  him  for  three  days  more. 

One  by  one,  upon  brow  and  breast 

The  whole  clan  kissed  him.     In  peace  may  he  rest  . 

XII 

How  long  He  leaves  me — the  great  God — here  ! 

Have  I  sinned  some  sin,  or  has  God  forgotten  ? 
This  year,  I  think,  is  my  hundredth  year  : 

I  am  like  a  bad  apple,  unripe  yet  rotten. 
They  shall  lift  me  ere  long,  they  shall  lay  me— the  clan — 
By  the  strength  of  men  on  Mount  Cruachan. 
God  has  much  to  think  of.     How  much  He  has  seen 
And  how  much  has  gone  by  that  once  has  been  ! 
On  sandy  hills  where  the  rabbits  burrow 

Are  raths  of  Kings  men  name  not  now  ; 
On  mountain  tops  I  have  tracked  the  furrow, 

And  found  in  forests  the  buried  plough. 
For  one  now  living  the  strong  land  then 
Gave  kindly  food  and  raiment  to  ten. 
No  doubt  they  waxed  proud,  and  their  God  defied  ; 

So  their  harvest  He  blighted  or  burned  their  hoard  ; 

Or  He  sent  them  plaguej  or  He  sent  the  sword  ; 
Or  He  sent  them  lightning  ;  and  so  they  died 
Like  Dathi,  the  King,  on  the  dark  Alp's  side. 

XIII 

Ah  me  !  that  man  who  is  made  of  dust 

Should  have  pride  toward  God  !    'Tis  a  demon's  spleen. 
I  have  often  feared  lest  God,  the  All-just, 

Should  bend  from  heaven  and  sweep  earth  clean — 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  319 

Should  sweep  us  all  into  corners  and  holes, 
Like  dust  of  the  house- floor,  both  bodies  and  souls. 
I  have  often  feared  He  would  send  some  wind 
In  wrath,  and  the  nation  wake  up  stone-blind. 
In  age  or  in  youth  we  have  all  wrought  ill : 
I  say  not  our  great  King  Nial  did  well, 
Although  he  was  Lord  of  the  Pledges  Nine, 

When,  beside  subduing  this  land  of  Eire, 
He  raised  in  Armorica  banner  and  sign 

And  wasted  the  British  coast  with  fire. 
Perhaps  in  His  mercy  the  Lord  will  say  : 
'  These  men  !     God's  help  !     'Twas  a  rough  boy -play  ! 
He  is  certain,  that  young  Franciscan  priest, 
God  sees  great  sin  where  men  see  least  : 
Yet  this  were  to  give  unto  God  the  eye — 
Unmeet  the  thought  !  -  of  the  humming  fly. 
I  trust  there  are  small  things  He  scorns  to  see 
In  the  lowly  who  cry  to  Him  piteously. 
Our  hope  is  Christ.     I  have  wept  full  oft 

He  came  not  to  Eire  in  Oisin's  time  ; 
Though  love  and  those  new  monks  would  make  men 
soft 

If  they  were  not  hardened  by  war  and  rhyme. 
I  have  done  my  part :  my  end  draws  nigh  : 
I  shall  leave  Old  Eire  with  a  smile  and  sigh  : 
She  will  miss  not  me  as  I  missed  my  son  : 
Yet  for  her,  and  her  praise,  were  my  best  deeds  done. 
Man's  deeds  !  man's  deeds  !  they  are  shades  that  fleet, 
Or  ripples  like  those  that  break  at  my  feet  : 
The  deeds  of  my  Chief  and  the  deeds  of  my  King 
Grow  hazy,  far  seen,  like  the  hills  in  spring. 
Nothing  is  great  save  the  death  on  the  Cross. 

But  Pilate  and  Herod  I  hate,  and  know 

Had  Fionn  lived  then  he  had  laid  them  low, 
Though  the  world  thereby  had  sustained  great  loss. 
My  blindness  and  deafness  and  aching  back 
With  meekness  I  bear  for  that  suffering's  sake 
And  the  Lent-fast  for  Mary's  sake  I  love, 
And  the  honour  of  Him  the  Man  above  ! 


320  BOOK   V 


My  songs  are  all  over  now  :— so  best  ! 

They  are  laid  in  the  Heavenly  Singer's  breast, 

Who  never  sings  but  a  star  is  born  : 

May  we  hear  His  song  in  the  endless  morn !  . 

I  give  glory  to  God  for  our  battles  won 

By  wood  or  river,  on  bay  or  creek  ; 
For  Norna — who  died  ;  for  my  father,  Conn  ; 

For  feasts,  and  the  chase  on  the  mountains  bleak. 
I  bewail  my  sins,  both  unknown  and  known, 

And  of  those  I  have  injured  forgiveness  seek. 
The  men  that  were  wicked  to  me  and  mine — 
Not  quenching  a  wrong,  nor  in  war  or  wine — 
I  forgive  and  absolve  them  all,  save  three  : 
May  Christ  in  His  mercy  be  kind  to  me  ! 

THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  CLANS 

I  GO  to  knit  two  clans  together, 

Our  clan  and  this  clan  unseen  of  yore. 

Our  clan  fears  naught  :  but  I  go,  oh,  whither  ? 
This  day  I  go  from  my  mother's  door. 

Thou,  redbreast,  singest  the  old  song  over, 

Though  many  a  time  hast  thou  sung  it  before  ; 

They  never  sent  thee  to  some  strange  new  lover 
To  sing  a  new  song  by  my  mother's  door. 

I  stepped  from  my  little  room  down  by  the  ladder — 
The  ladder  that  never  so  shook  before  ; 

I  was  sad  last  night,  to-day  I  am  sadder, 
Because  I  go  from  my  mother's  door. 

The  last  snow  melts  upon  bush  and  bramble, 
The  gold  bars  shine  on  the  forest's  floor  ; 

Shake  not,  thou  leaf ;  it  is  I  must  tremble, 
Because  I  go  from  my  mother's  door. 

From  a  Spanish  sailor  a  dagger  I  bought  me, 
I  trailed  a  rose-bush  our  grey  bawn  o'er  ; 

The  creed  and  the  letters  our  old  bard  taught  me  \ 
My  days  were  sweet  by  my  mother's  door. 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  321 


My  little  white  goat,  that  with  raised  feet  huggest 

The  oak  stock,  thy  horns  in  the  ivy  frore  ; 
Could  I  wrestle  like  thee— how  the  wreaths  thou  tuggest !  — 

I  never  would  move  from  my  mother's  door. 

Oh,  weep  no  longer,  my  nurse  and  mother  ; 

My  foster-sister,  weep  not  so  sore  ; 
You  cannot  come  with  me,  Ir,  my  brother — 

Alone  I  go  from  my  mother's  door. 

Farewell,  my  wolf-hound,  that  slew  MacOwing, 

As  he  caught  me  and  far  through  the  thickets  bore, 

My  heifer  Alb  in  the  green  vale  lowing, 
My  cygnet's  nest  upon  Loma's  shore. 

He  has  killed  ten  Chiefs,  this  Chief  that  plights  me, 

His  hand  is  like  that  of  the  giant  Balor  ; 
But  I  fear  his  kiss,  and  his  beard  affrights  me, 

And  the  great  stone  dragon  above  his  door. 

Had  I  daughters  nine,  with  me  they  should  tarry  ; 

They  should  sing  old  songs  ;  they  should  dance  at  my  door 
They  should  grind  at  the  quern,  no  need  to  marry  ! 

Oh,  when  shall  this  marriage  day  be  o'er  ? 

Had  I  buried,  like  Moirin,  three  mates  already, 
I  might  say,  Three  husbands,  then  why  not  four  ? 

But  my  hand  is  cold,  and  my  foot  unsteady, 
Because  I  never  was  married  before  ! 

DIRGE  OF  RORY  O'MORE 

A.D.    1642 

UP  the  sea-saddened  valley,  at  evening's  decline, 
A  heifer  walks  lowing — *  the  Silk  of  the  Kine  ; ' 
From  the  deep  to  the  mountains  she  roams,  and  again 
From  the  mountain's  green  urn  to  the  purple- rimmed  main. 

What  seek'st  thou,  sad  mother  ?     Thine  own  is  not  thine  ! 
He  dropped  from  the  headland — he  sank  in  the  brine  ! 
'Twas  a  dream  !  but  in  dreams  at  thy  foot  did  he  follow 
Through  the  meadow-sweet  on  by  the  marish  and  mallow  ! 

Y 


322  BOOK   V 


Was  he  thine  ?     Have  they  slain  him  ?     Thou  seek'st  him,  not 

knowing 

Thyself,  too,  art  theirs — thy  sweet  breath  and  sad  lowing  ! 
Thy  gold  horn  is  theirs,  thy  dark  eye  and  thy  silk, 
And  that  which  torments  thee,  thy  milk,  is  their  milk  ! 

Twas  no  dream,  Mother  Land  !     JTwas  no  dream,  Innisfail  ! 
Hope  dreams,  but  grief  dreams  not — the  grief  of  the  Gael  ! 
From  Leix  and  Ikerrin  to  Donegal's  shore 
Rolls  the  dirge  of  thy  last  and  thy  bravest — O'More  ! 


SONG 

i 

WHEN  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow : 
'  Come  and  I  will  play  with  thee.' 
He  is  near  me  now  all  day, 
And  at  night  returns  to  say  : 
'  I  will  come  again  to-morrow — 
I  will  come  and  stay  with  thee.' 

II 

Through  the  woods  we  walk  together 
His  soft  footsteps  rustle  nigh  me  ; 
To  shield  an  unregarded  head 
He  hath  built  a  winter  shed  ; 
And  all  night  in  rainy  weather 

I  hear  his  gentle  breathings  by  me. 

SORROW 

COUNT  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave, 
God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee  ;  do  thou 
With  courtesy  receive  him  ;  rise  and  bow  ; 
And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold,  crave 
Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave ; 
Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast :  allow 
No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow 
Or  mar  thy  hospitality  ;  no  wave 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  323 


Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 
The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness  ;  grief  should  be — 

Like  joy — majestic,  equable,  sedate, 
Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free  ; 
Strong  to  consume  small  troubles  ;  to  commend 
Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to  the»end. 


THE  YEAR  OF  SORROW:  IRELAND,  1849 

SPRING 

ONCE  more,  through  God's  high  will,  and  grace 

Of  hours  that  each  its  task  fulfils, 
Heart-healing  Spring  resumes  her  place, 

The  valley  throngs,  and  scales  the  hills. 

In  vain.     From  earth's  deep  heart,  o'ercharged, 

The  exulting  life  runs  o'er  in  flowers. 
The  slave  unfed  is  unenlarged  ; 

In  darkness  sleep  a  Nation's  powers. 

Who  knows  not  Spring  ?     Who  doubts,  when  blows 
Her  breath,  that  Spring  is  come  indeed  ? 

The  swallow  doubts  not  ;  nor  the  rose 
That  stirs,  but  wakes  not  ;  nor  the  weed. 

I  feel  her  near,  but  see  her  not ; 

For  these  with  pain- uplifted  eyes 
Fall  back  repulsed,  and  vapours  blot 

The  vision  of  the  earth  and  skies. 

I  see  her  not  ;  I  feel  hei  near, 

As,  charioted  in  mildest  airs, 
She  sails  through  yon  empyreal  sphere, 

And  in  her  arms  and  bosom  bears 

That  urn  of  flowers  and  lustral  dews 

Whose  sacred  balm,  o'er  all  things  shed, 

Revives  the  weak,  the  old  renews, 
And  crowns  with  votive  wreaths  the  dead. 

Y2 


324  BOOK   V 


Once  more  the  cuckoo's  call  I  hear ; 

I  know,  in  many  a  glen  profound, 
The  earliest  violets  of  the  year 

Rise  up  like  water  from  the  ground. 

The  thorn,  I  know,  once  more  is  white  ; 

And,  far  down  many  a  forest  dale, 
The  anemones  in  dubious  light 

Are  trembling  like  a  bridal  veil. 

By  streams  released,  that  singing  flow 
From  craggy  shelf  through  sylvan  glades, 

The  pale  narcissus,  well  I  know, 

Smiles  hour  by  hour  on  greener  shades. 

The  honeyed  cowslip  tufts  once  more 
The  golden  slopes  ;  with  gradual  ray 

The  primrose  stars  the  rock,  and  o'er 
The  wood-path  strews  its  milky  way. 

From  ruined  huts  and  holes  come  forth 

Old  men,  and  look  upon  the  sky. 
The  Power  Divine  is  on  the  earth  : 

Give  thanks  to  God  before  ye  die  ! 

And  ye,  O  children,  worn  and  weak, 
Who  care  no  more  with  flowers  to  play, 

Lean  on  the  grass  your  cold,  thin  cheek 
And  those  slight  hands,  and,  whispering,  say 

1  Stern  mother  of  a  race  unblest, 

In  promise  kindly,  cold  in  deed, 
Take  back,  O  Earth,  into  thy  breast, 

The  children  whom  thou  wilt  not  feed.' 


SUMMER 

Approved  by  works  of  love  and  might, 
The  Year,  consummated  and  crowned, 

Hath  scaled  the  zenith's  purple  height, 
And  flings  his  robe  the  earth  around. 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  325 


Impassioned  stillness,  fervours  calm, 

Brood,  vast  and  bright,  o'er  land  and  deep  ; 

The  warrior  sleeps  beneath  the  palm  ; 
The  dark-eyed  captive  guards  his  sleep. 

The  Iberian  labourer  rests  from  toil  ; 

Sicilian  virgins  twine  the  dance  ; 
Laugh  Tuscan  vales  in  wine  and  oil  ; 

Fresh  laurels  flash  from  brows  of  France. 

Far  off,  in  regions  of  the  North, 
The  hunter  drops  his  winter  fur  ; 

Sun-wakened  babes  their  feet  stretch  forth  ; 
And  nested  dormice  feebly  stir. 

But  thou,  O  land  of  many  woes  ! 

What  cheer  is  thine  ?     Again  the  breath 
Of  proved  Destruction  o'er  thee  blows, 

And  sentenced  fields  grow  black  in  death. 

In  horror  of  a  new  despair 

His  blood-shot  eyes  the  peasant  strains 
With  hands  clenched  fast,  and  lifted  hair, 

Along  the  daily  darkening  plains. 

Why  trusted  he  to  them  his  store  ? 

Why  feared  he  not  the  scourge  to  come  ? ' 
Fool  !  turn  the  page  of  History  o'er — 

The  roll  of  Statutes — and  be  dumb  ! 

Behold,  O  People  !  thou  shalt  die  ! 

What  art  thou  better  than  thy  sires  ? 
The  hunted  deer  a  weeping  eye 

Turns  on  his  birthplace,  and  expires. 

Lo  !  as  the  closing  of  a  book, 

Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 

Or  blasted  wood,  or  dried-up  brook, 
Name,  race,  and  nation,  thou  art  gone  1 


326  BOOK   V 


The  stranger  shall  thy  hearth  possess  ; 

The  stranger  build  upon  thy  grave. 
But  know  this  also— he,  not  less, 

His  limit  and  his  term  shall  have. 

Once  more  thy  volume,  open  cast, 

In  thunder  forth  shall  sound  thy  name  j 

Thy  forest,  hot  at  heart,  at  last 

God's  breath  shall  kindle  into  flame. 

Thy  brook,  dried  up,  a  cloud  shall  rise, 
And  stretch  an  hourly  widening  hand, 

In  God's  good  vengeance,  through  the  skies, 
And  onward  o'er  the  Invader's  land. 

Of  thine,  one  day,  a  remnant  left 

Shall  raise  o'er  earth  a  Prophet's  rod, 

And  teach  the  coasts,  of  Faith  bereft, 
The  names  of  Ireland  and  of  God. 

AUTUMN 

Then  die,  thou  Year — thy  work  is  done  ; 

The  work,  ill  done,  is  done  at  last  ; 
Far  off,  beyond  that  sinking  sun, 

Which  sets  in  blood,  I  hear  the  blast 

That  sings  thy  dirge,  and  says  :  '  Ascend, 
And  answer  make  amid  thy  peers, 

Since  all  things  here  must  have  an  end, 
Thou  latest  of  the  famine  years.' 

I  join  that  voice.     No  joy  have  I 

In  all  thy  purple  and  thy  gold  ; 
Nor  in  that  ninefold  harmony 

From  forest  on  to  foreot  rolled  ; 

Nor  in  that  stormy  western  fire 

Which  burns  on  ocean's  gloomy  bed, 

And  hurls,  as  from  a  funeral  pyre, 

A  glare  that  strikes  the  mountain's  head ; 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  327 


And  writes  on  low-hung  clouds  its  lines 
Of  ciphered  flame,  with  hurrying  hand  : 

And  flings,  amid  the  topmost  pines 
That  crown  the  cliff,  a  burning  brand. 

Make  answer,  Year,  for  all  thy  dead, 
Who  found  not  rest  in  hallowed  earth  : 

The  widowed  wife,  the  father  fled, 

The  babe  age-stricken  from  his  birth  ! 

Make  answer,  Year,  for  virtue  lost  ; 

For  courage,  proof  'gainst  fraud  and  force, 
Now  waning  like  a  noontide  ghost  ; 

Affections  poisoned  at  their  source  ! 

The  labourer  spurned  his  lying  spade  ; 

The  yeoman  spurned  his  useless  plough  ; 
The  pauper  spurned  the  unwholesome  aid 

Obtruded  once,  exhausted  now. 

The  roof-trees  fall  of  hut  and  hall  ; 

I  hear  them  fall,  and  falling  cry  : 
*  One  fate  for  each,  one  fate  for  all  ! 

So  wills  the  Law  that  willed  a  lie.' 

Dread  power  of  Man  !  what  spread  the  waste 
In  circles  hour  by  hour  more  wide, 

And  would  not  let  the  past  be  past  ? 

That  Law  which  promised  much,  and  lied. 

Dread  power  of  God,  Whom  mortal  years 
Nor  touch,  nor  tempt,  Who  sitt'st  sublime 

In  night  of  night — oh,  bid  Thy  spheres 
Resound,  at  last,  a  funeral  chime  ! 

Call  up  at  last  the  afflicted  race, 
.  Whom  Man,  not  God,  abolished.     Sore, 
For  centuries,  their  strife  ;  the  place 
That  knew  them  once  shall  know  no  more  ! 


328  BOOK   V 


WINTER 

Fall,  snow,  and  cease  not !  Flake  by  flake 
The  decent  winding-sheet  compose  ; 

Thy  task  is  just  and  pious  ;  make 
An  end  of  blasphemies  and  woes  ! 

Fall,  flake  by  flake  !  by  thee  alone, 

Last  friend,  the  sleeping  draught  is  given. 

Kind  nurse,  by  thee  the  couch  is  strown  — 
The  couch  whose  covering  is  from  Heaven. 

Descend  and  clasp  the  mountain's  crest  ; 

Inherit  plain  and  valley  deep. 
This  night  on  thy  maternal  breast 

A  vanquished  nation  dies  in  sleep. 

Lo  !  from  the  starry  Temple  Gates 

Death  rides,  and  bears  the  flag  of  peace  ; 

The  combatants  he  separates  ; 
He  bids  the  wrath  of  ages  cease. 

Descend,  benignant  Power  !  But,  oh, 
Ye  torrents,  shake  no  more  the  vale  ! 

Dark  streams,  in  silence  seaward  flow  ! 
Thou  rising  storm,  remit  thy  wail ! 

Shake  not,  to-night,  the  cliffs  of  Moher, 

Nor  Brandon's  base,  rough  sea  !     Thou  Isle, 

The  Rite  proceeds  !     From  shore  to  shore 
Hold  in  thy  gathered  breath  the  while  ! 

Fall,  snow  !  in  stillness  fall,  like  dew, 
On  church's  roof  and  cedar's  fan  ; 

And  mould  thyself  on  pine  and  yew, 
And  on  the  awful  face  of  Man. 

Without  a  sound,  without  a  stir, 

In  streets  and  wolds,  on  rock  and  mound, 
O  omnipresent  Comforter, 

By  Thee  this  night  the  lost  are  found  ! 


AUBREY  DE    VERE  329 


On  quaking  moor  and  mountain  moss, 

With  eyes  upstaring  at  the  sky, 
And  arms  extended  like  a  cross, 

The  long-expectant  sufferers  lie. 

Bend  o'er  them,  white-robed  Acolyte  ! 

Put  forth  thine  hand  from  cloud  and  mist ; 
And  minister  the  last  sad  Rite, 

Where  altar  there  is  none,  nor  priest ; 

Touch  thou  the  gates  of  soul  and  sense  ; 

Touch  darkening  eyes  and  dying  ears  ; 
Touch  stiffening  hands  and  feet,  and  thence 

Remove  the  trace  of  sins  and  tears  ! 

And,  ere  thou  seal  those  filmed  eyes, 

Into  God's  urn  thy  fingers  dip, 
And  lay,  'mid  eucharistic  sighs, 

The  sacred  wafer  on  the  lip. 

This  night  the  Absolver  issues  forth  ; 

This  night  the  Eternal  Victim  bleeds. 
O  winds  and  woods,  O  heaven  and  earth, 

Be  still  this  night !     The  Rile  proceeds  ! 

THE  LITTLE  BLACK  ROSE 

THE  Little  Black  Rose  '  shall  be  red  at  last  ; 

What  made  it  black  but  the  March  wind  dry, 
And  the  tear  of  the  widow  that  fell  on  it  fast  ? 

It  shall  redden  the  hills  when  June  is  nigh  ! 

The  Silk  of  the  Kine1  shall  rest  at  last  ; 

What  drove  her  forth  but  the  dragon  fly  ? 
In  the  golden  vale  she  shall  feed  full  fast, 

With  her  mild  gold  horn  and  her  slow,  dark  eye. 

The  wounded  wood-dove  lies  dead  at  last ! 

The  pine  long-bleeding,  it  shall  not  die  ! 
This  song  is  secret.     Mine  ear  it  passed 

In  a  wind  o'er  the  plains  at  Athenry. 


1  Mystical  names  of  Ireland,  frequently  occurring  in  Gaelic  poetry. 


330  BOOK  V 


GEORGE   SIGERSON 

DR.  SIGERSON  in  the  Ireland  of  to-day  stands  forward  a  potent 
personality,  to  link  in  an  embrace  of  amity  the  spirits  of  the 
Gall  and  of  the  Gael.  Gall  of  the  Gall  himself,  he  is  yet,  as 
were  also  his  ancestors,  more  Gaelic  than  the  Gael  ;  and  how 
thoroughly  his  ancestors  had  become  one  in  soul  and  spirit 
with  their  new  country  the  lament  of  the  eighteenth-century 
poet  for  Francis  Sigerson  shows,  for  he  describes  the  Suir  as 
overflowing  in  its  grief,  the  hills  of  Ireland  as  opening,  and  the 
Skellings  as  shrieking  aloud  'A  man  has  died' — all  three 
bewailing. 

The  handsome  Hawk  who  towered  the  country  o'er,  " 
Top-spray  of  all  who  sprang  from  Sigerson  Mor. 

And  he  himself  has  been  true  to  his  ancestry,  for  while  no 
man  has  been  more  keen  than  he  in  investigating  the  history 
of  his  own  forefathers,  the  Northmen,  no  man  has  at  the  same 
time  done  more  to  save  and  popularise  the  literature  of  the 
Irish  Gael,  the  men  whom  his  ancestors  first  met  as  their 
red-enemies.  It  is  now  close  upon  forty  years  ago  since,  in 
conjunction  with  old  John  O'Daly  of  Anglesea  Street,  Dublin, 
he  took  up  the  work  which  fell  from  the  hands  of  Mangan, 
and  in  the  second  series  of  the  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  MUNSTER 
performed  a  task  of  immense  service  to  the  then  neglected 
cause  of  native  Irish  literature,  by  publishing  with  metrical 
translations  the  text  of  nearly  fifty  Munster  poems  of  great 
beauty.  For  close  upon  three  decades  he  and  John  O'Daly 
held  aloft  almost  single-handed  the  banner  of  the  Irish  Gael, 
and  their  efforts  prepared  the  way  for  the  great  and  real 
revival  of  the  last  three  years.  From  the  very  earliest  did  Dr. 
Sigerson  fall  under  the  spell  of  that  strange  wild  witch-soul 
which  steals  through  Ireland  under  many  names  —whom  some 
of  our  fathers  have  known  as  *  Moneen,'  others  as  *  Sheela  the 
Bright,'  and  others  again  as  *  Kathleen  '  daughter  of  Houlihan  — 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  331 

and  ever  since  his  youth  he  has  been  her  faithful  attendant, 
proceeding  in  her  cause  from  service  to  service,  and  finishing 
one  task  for  her,  only  to  take  up  another.  For  as  leader-writer, 
essayist,  land-reformer,  scientist,  poet,  and  lastly  as  President 
of  the  National  Literary  Society,  Dr.  Sigerson  has  performed 
for  the  '  Sean  Bhean  Bhocht '  the  part  of  many  workers,  and 
his  home  has  been  the  rendezvous  of  those  who  loved  her. 

His  recent  book  of  translations  from  the  Irish,  THE  BARDS 
OF  THE  GAEL  AND  GALL,1  is  really  an  extension  into  the  past  of 
his  POERTY  OF  MUNSTER,  and  it  is  a  contribution  to  the  so-called 
Celtic  Revival  the  importance  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
over-estimate.  In  this  work  he  has  given  metrical  translations 
of  about  one  hundred  and  forty  Irish  poems,  covering  the 
ground  from  the  earliest  unrhymed  chant  ascribed  to  the  first 
invading  Milesian,  down  to  the  peasant  songs  of  the  last 
century.  He  has  thus,  for  the  first  time,  brought  before  the 
English  reader  a  long  gallery  of  poetic  pictures,  receding  back 
into  the  past,  and  extending  demonstrably  over  a  period  of 
one  thousand  two  hundred  years,  and  quite  possibly  over  two 
thousand,  and  such  as  no  other  country  in  Europe  except  one 
can  boast  of.  His  merit  as  a  translator  is  great,  and  his  rhymed 
versions  are  the  result  of  a  subtle  fusion  of  scholar  and  poet. 
To  catch  the  music  of  Irish  verse  is  extremely  difficult ;  it  is 
perhaps  easier  to  catch  its  spirit  than  its  music  ;  but  Dr. 
Sigerson  has  in  many  cases  yoked  both  together  with  an 
extreme  felicity.  The  heptasyllabic  lines  that  prior  to  the 
seventeenth  century  were  so  beloved  by  the  Irish  are  extremely 
hard  to  reproduce  in  English,  which  is  far  more  suited  to  an 
octosyllabic  measure  ;  but  in  scarcely  any  case  has  the  translator 
allowed  himself  to  be  seduced  from  the  severe  path  of  scholar- 
ship, and  his  translations  may  be  better  relied  on  by  the 
English  reader  for  their  accuracy  than  those  of  any  other  who 
has  ever  attempted  to  turn  Irish  into  English  verses.  Indeed, 
this  fidelity  to  his  originals  enormously  enhances  the  value  of 
the  book  for  those  who  may  consult  it  for  other  reasons  than 

1  Fisher  Unwin,  1897. 


332  BOOK   V 

those  of  pure  poetry.  It  is  a  book  which  is  at  present  essential 
to  all  who  would  form  for  themselves  an  idea  of  the  Irish 
literary  past  and  of  Irish  versification. 

As  an  original  poet  Dr.  Sigerson  is  perhaps  most  dis- 
tinctly a  lyrist,  as  is  natural  to  one  who  has  come  under  the 
native  Irish  spell.  Many  of  his  songs  are  written,  like  the 
Gaelic  ones,  to  Irish  airs,  and  most  of  them  lend  themselves 
naturally  to  music.  The  nobler  characteristics  of  Irish  verse, 
which  he  has  acquired  from  his  lifelong  acquaintance  with  the 
Gaelic  poets,  tinge  his  own  verses  very  appreciably — especially 
the  smoothness,  the  desire  for  recurrent  or  even  interwoven 
vowel  sounds,  and  the  love  of  alliteration,  which  when  wholly 
natural  and  devoid  of  any  obtrusiveness,  as  they  are  here, 
possess  in  themselves  a  subtle  charm  which  is  very  Irish. 
These  characteristics  will  strike  the  careful  reader  in  such 
lyrics  as  'Far- Away,'  'The  Swans  of  Tir,'  or  'The  Roman 
Tree  ;'  while  they  are  wholly  absent  from  the  fine  elegy  on 
Isaac  Butt,  with  the  severity  of  which  they  would  not  be  in 
keeping. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE  (AN  CHRAOIBHIN). 

George  Sigerson  is  a  native  of  Tyrone,  a  descendant  of  a  Norse-Irish 
family,  whose  name,  Filius  Segeri,  is  on  the  oldest  municipal  roll  of 
Dublin  (twelfth  century).  His  studies  in  arts  and  medicine  were  chiefly 
pursued  in  Paris,  where  he  was  a  pupil  of  Claude  Bernard,  Duchenne  (de 
Boulogne),  Charcot,  Ranvier,  Ball,  and  Behier.  His  first  medical  treatise 
was  published  at  the  instance  of  Duchenne  ;  he  translated  and  edited  the 
first  two  volumes  of  Charcot,  on  DISEASES  OF  THE  NERVOUS  SYSTEM. 
Darwin  was  interested  in  his  biological  work,  and  Tyndall  observed  that 
his  microscopic  researches  on  the  atmosphere  revealed  the  true  nature  of 
the  organisms  whose  presence  he  himself  had  detected.  As  a  sequel  to  his 
work  on  the  Dublin  Mansion  House  Committee  in  1880-81  (of  which  he 
was  named  Medical  Commissioner),  he  published  a  ract  on  the  NEED  AND 
USE  OF  VILLAGE  HOSPITALS  in  1882.  As  a  member  of  Lord  Spencer's 
Royal  Commission  on  Prisons,  in  1883-84,  he  aided  in  improving  the  dietary 
(an  improvement  since  followed  in  England)  and  the  condition  of  weak- 
minded  prisoners,  and  in  having  a  Medical  Commissioner  appointed.  As  a 
sequel  he  published,  in  1890,  a  work  on  THE  TREATMENT  OF  POLITICAL 
PRISONERS.  He  also  published  a  book  entitled  MODERN  IRELAND  ;  his 
study  of  the  LAND  TENURES  AND  LAND  CLASSES  OF  IRELAND  was  read 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  333 

by  Mr.  Gladstone  in  proof,  and  convinced  him  on  the  subject  of  customary 
rights,  which  he  embodied  in  his  first  Land  Law.  To  Two  CENTURIES 
OF  IRISH  HISTORY,  edited  by  the  Right  Honourable  James  Bryce,  Dr. 
Sigerson  contributed  a  study  on  the  work  of  the  independent  Irish 
Parliament.  Having,  when  a  student,  given  some  versions  of  the  Munster 
poets  (second  series),  he  in  1897  produced  an  Irish  anthology,  BARDS  OF 
THE  GAEL  AND  GALL  :  DONE  INTO  ENGLISH  AFTER  THE  MODES  AND 
METRES  OF  THE  GAEL.  He  has  also  prepared  an  analysis,  with  metrical 
examples,  of  the  CARMEN  PASCHALE  of  Sedulius,  the  first  saint  of  Erin  and 
her  only  epic  poet.  Other  work — professional,  scientific,  and  literary — has 
appeared  in  periodicals.  He  is  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  University,  professor 
of  Biology  in  University  College,  and  President  of  the  ational  Literary 
Society. 

* 

THE  LOST  TRIBUNE 

TO  THE   MEMORY  OF   ISAAC   BUTT 

FAREWELL  !  the  doom  is  spoken.    All  is  o'er. 

One  heart  we  loved  is  silent ;  and  one  head, 
Whose  counsel  guided  Nations,  guides  no  more  ; 

A  Man  of  the  few  foremost  Men  is  dead. 

With  giant  might  of  mind  and  mould  of  form 
He  towered  aloft  ;  with  mightier  love  he  bowed : 

Strong  not  alone  to  dominate  the  storm, 
To  brave  the  haughty,  and  rebuke  the  proud — 

But  strong  to  weep,  to  heed  an  infant's  care, 
To  gather  sorrow  to  his  heart ;  nor  scorn 

To  stoop  from  Fortune's  brilliant  ranks  and  share 
A  weight  of  woe  to  which  he  was  not  born. 

The  secret  of  his  greatness,  there  behold  ! 

More  truly  there  than  in  th'  unrivalled  fence, 
The  vivid  wit,  the  reason  keen  and  bold, 

And  all  the  power  of  peerless  eloquence  ! 

Mark  yonder  peasants  who,  in  dumb  despair, 
Kneel  down  to  kiss  the  ruins  of  their  home, 

While  beats  the  rain  upon  their  hoary  hair, 
Then  turn  to  face  the  salt  Atlantic  foam  ; 


334  BOOK   V 


See,  where  yon  massive  dungeon  walls  surround 
The  pale  confessors  of  a  country's  cause, 

Their  grave,  perchance,  that  plot  of  felon  ground, 
Their  name,  their  honour,  branded  by  the  laws — 

These  were  his  clients.     Their  defend.:!  he 
Whose  genius,  wielding  justice  as  a  glaive, 

Delivered  those  from  the  strange  bitter  sea, 
And  these  from  prison  gyve  and  felon  grave. 

One  chiefly  served  he,  with  chivalric  faith  ; 

One  chiefly  loved  he,  with  devoted  soul  ; 
His  shield  was  spread  between  her  breast  and  scathe ; 

His  life  was  spent  to  save  her  life  from  dole. 

Her  fallen  banner  from  the  dust  he  raised, 
And  proud  advanced  it,  with  uplifted  brow, 

Till  the  sun  kissed  it,  and  the  Nations  gazed — 
Whose  was  that  Standard  ?    Answer,  Erin,  thou  ! 

Farewell  to  all  of  personal  joy  that  came 
Of  seeing,  'mid  these  common  days,  a  man 

Titanic,  victor  of  enduring  fame, 
WThose  immortality  on  earth  began  ; 

Of  that  enlargement  which  the  mind  receives, 
The  wider  range,  the  deeper,  subtler  sense, 

The  higher  flight  of  thought  that  upward  cleaves, 
When  near  us  moves  a  great  Intelligence 

But  not  farewell  to  him  who  hath  outgrown 

The  confines  of  mortality  ;  he  survives 
In  every  heart,  and  shall  henceforth  be  known 

Long  as  his  country  loves,  long  as  his  Nation  lives  ! 

THE  CALLING 

O  SlGH  of  the  Sea,  O  soft  lone- wandering  sound, 
Why  callest  thou  me,  with  voice  of  all  waters  profound, 
With  sob  and  with  smile,  with  lingering  pain  and  delight, 
With  mornings  of  blue,  with  flash  of  thy  billows  at  night? 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  335 

The  shell  from  the  shore,  though  borne  far  away  from  thy  side, 
Recalls  evermore  the  flowing  and  fall  of  thy  tide, 
And  so,  through  my  heart  thy  murmurs  gather  and  grow — 
Thy  tides,  as  of  old,  awake  in  its  darkness,  and  flow. 

O  Sigh  of  the  Sea,  from  luminous  isles  far  away, 
Why  callest  thou  me  to  sail  the  impassable  way  ? 
Why  callest  thou  me  to  share  the  unrest  of  thy  soul — 
Desires  that  avail  not,  yearnings  from  pole  unto  pole  ? 

Still  call,  till  I  hear  no  voice  but  the  voice  of  thy  love, 
Till  stars  shall  appear  the  night  of  my  darkness  above, 
Till  night  to  the  dawn  gives  way,  and  death  to  new  life — 
Heart-full  of  thy  might,  astir  with  thy  tumult  and  strife. 

FAR-AWAY 
As  chimes  that  flow  o'er  shining  seas 

When  Morn  alights  on  meads  of  May, 
Faint  voices  fill  the  western  breeze 

With  whisp'ring  songs  from  Far-Away. 
Oh,  dear  the  dells  of  Dunanore, 

A  home  is  odorous  Ossory  ; 
But  sweet  as  honey,  running  o'er, 
The  Golden  Shore  of  Far-Away  ! 

There  grows  the  Tree  whose  summer  breath 

Perfumes  with  joy  the  azure  air  ; 
And  he  who  feels  it  fears  not  Death, 
Nor  longer  heeds  the  hounds  of  Care. 
Oh,  soft  the  skies  of  Seskinore, 

And  mild  is  meadowy  Mellaray  ; 
But  sweet  as  honey,  running  o'er, 
The  Golden  Shore  of  Far-Away  ! 

There  sings  the  Voice  whose  wondrous  tune 

Falls,  like  diamond-showers  above 
That  in  the  radiant  dawn  of  June 
Renew  a  world  of  Youth  and  Love. 
Oh,  fair  the  founts  of  Farranfore, 

And  bright  is  billowy  Ballintrae  ; 
But  sweet  as  honey,  running  o'er, 
The  Golden  Shore  of  Far-Away  I 


336  BOOK   V 


Come,  Fragrance  of  the  Flowering  Tree, 

Oh,  sing,  sweet  Bird,  thy  magic  lay, 
Till  all  the  world  be  young  with  me, 
And  Love  shall  lead  us  far  away. 
Oh,  dear  the  dells  of  Dunanore, 

A  home  is  odorous  Ossory  ; 
But  sweet  as  honey,  running  o'er, 
The  Golden  Shore  of  Far- Away  ! 


THE  BLACKBIRD'S  SONG 

FROM  THE   IRISH  :   A.D.    850 

An  Irish  scribe  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Gall,  in  Switzerland,  while  copying 
a  Latin  MS.,  heard  a  thrush's  song  in  the  woods  outside  his  cell,  and  paused 
to  indite  these  quatrains  on  the  margin  of  his  MS. ,  where  they  were  found  by 
the  Cavaliere  Nigra,  and  published  in  RELIQUIE  CELTICHE,  1872.  Note 
that  at  this  early  date  (about  850)  the  Gaelic  system  of  rhyming  verse  with 
its  internal  chimes  is  fully  developed. 

GREAT  woods  gird  me  now  around, 
With  sweet  sound  Merle  sings  to  me  ; 

My  much-lined  pages  over 
Sings  its  lover-minstrelsie. 

Soft  it  sings  its  measured  song, 

Hid  among  the  tree-tops  green  ; 
May  God  on  high  thus  love  me, 

Thus  approve  me,  all  unseen. 


THE  RUINED  NEST 

AUTHOR   UNKNOWN 

The  original  of  this  touching  poem  is  found  in  '  the  famous  fourteenth- 
century  manuscript  known  as  the  Lebor  Breac,'  writes  Prof.  Kuno  Meyer, 
who  first  edited  it  and  translated  it  for  The  Gaelic  Journal,  1890.  It  was 
composed  long  before  the  fourteenth  century. — Translator 's  note. 

SAD  is  yonder  blackbird's  song, 
Well  I  know  what  wrought  it  wrong  ; 
Whosoe'er  the  deed  has  done, 
Now  its  nestlings  all  are  gone. 


.    GEORGE  SIGERSON  337 

Such  a  sorrow  I,  too,  know 
For  such  loss,  not  long  ago  ; 
Well,  O  bird,  I  read  thy  state, 
For  a  home  laid  desolate. 

How  thy  heart  has  burned,  nigh  broke, 
At  the  rude  and  reckless  stroke  ; 
To  lay  waste  thy  little  nest 
Seems  to  cowboys  but  a  jest. 

Thy  clear  note  called  together 
Plutt'ring  young  in  new  feather  ; 
From  thy  nest  comes  now  not  one — 
O'er  its  mouth  the  nettle's  gone. 

Sudden  came  the  callous  boys, 
Their  deed  all  thy  young  destroys  ; 
Thou  and  I  one  fate  deplore, 
For  my  children  are  no  more. 

By  thy  side  there  used  to  be 
Thy  sweet  mate  from  o'er  the  sea ; 
The  herd's  net  ensnared  her  head, 
She  is  gone  from  thee — and  dead. 

0  Ruler  of  high  heaven, 
Thou'st  laid  our  loads  uneven  ; 
For  our  friends  on  ev'ry  side 
'Mid  their  mates  and  children  bide. 

Hither  came  hosts  of  Faery 
To  waste  our  home  unwary  : 
Though  they  left  no  wound  to  tell, 
Brunt  of  battle  were  less  fell. 

Woe  for  wife — for  children,  woe  ! 

1  in  sorrow's  shadow  go  ; 
Not  a  trace  of  them  I  had  ! 
Hence  my  heavy  heart  is  sad. 


BOOK   V 


THE  DIRGE  OF  GAEL 
FROM  THE  IRISH  :  BY  CREDE,  HIS  SPOUSE 

The  rhymes  and  metre  of  the  original  are  given.    It  is  taken  from  a  Bodleian 
MS.  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

MOANS  the  bay — 
Billows  gray  round  Ventry  roar  ; 
Drowned  is  Gael  MacCrimtann  brave— 
Tis  for  him  sob  wave  and  shore. 

Heron  hoar 

'Mid  the  moor  of  Dromatren, 
Found  the  fox  her  young  attack, 
Bleeding,  drove  him  back  again. 

Sore  the  sigh 

Sobs  the  stag  from  Drumlis  nigh  ; 
Dead  the  hind  of  high  Drumsailin, 
Hence  the  sad  stag's  wailing  cry. 

Wild  the  wail 

From  the  thrush  of  Drumkeen's  dale  ; 
Not  less  sad  the  blackbird's  song, 
Mourning  long  in  Leitir's  vale. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

Dead  my  Gael  is,  fair  and  free  ; 
Oft  my  arms  would  ward  his  sleep, 
Now  it  is  the  deep,  dark  sea. 

Woe,  the  roar 

Rolling  round  from  sea  and  shore  ; 
Since  he  fought  the  foreign  foe, 
Mine  the  woe  for  Gael  no  more. 


Sad  the  sound, 

From  the  beach  and  billows  round  ; 
I  have  seen  my  time  this  day  : 
Change  in  form  and  face  is  found. 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  339 

Ever  raining, 

Fall  the  plaining  waves  above  ; 
I  have  hope  of  joy  no  more, 
Since  'tis  o'er,  our  bond  of  love. 

Dead,  the  swan 

Mourns  his  mate  on  waters  wan  ; 
Great  the  grief  that  makes  me  know, 
Share  of  woe  with  dying  swan. 

Drowned  was  Gael  MacCrimtann  brave, 
Now  I've  nought  of  life  my  own  ; 
Heroes  fell  before  his  glaive, 
His  high  shield  has  ceased  to  moan. 


THINGS  DELIGHTFUL 

FROM  THE   IRISH  :   OISIN 

The  original  appeared  in  the  Dean  of  Lismore's  Book 

SWEET  is  a  voice  in  the  land  of  gold, 
Sweet  is  the  calling  of  wild  birds  bold  ; 
Sweet  is  the  shriek  of  the  heron  hoar, 
Sweet  fall  the  billows  of  Bundatrore. 

Sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  blowing  breeze, 
Sweet  is  the  blackbird's  song  in  the  trees  ; 
Lovely  the  sheen  of  the  shining  sun, 
Sweet  is  the  thrush  over  Casacon. 

Sweet  shouts  the  eagle  of  Assaroe, 
Where  the  gray  seas  of  MacMorna  flow  ; 
Sweet  calls  the  cuckoo  the  valleys  o'er, 
Sweet,  through  the  silence,  the  corrie's  roar. 

Fionn,  my  father,  is  chieftain  old 
Of  seven  battalions  of  Fianna  bold  ; 
When  he  sets  free  all  the  deerhounds  fleet 
To  rise  and  to  follow  with  him  were  sweet. 

Z2 


340  BOOK   V 


SOLACE  IN  WINTER 

FROM   THE   IRISH  :    CAILTE   loquitur 

From  SILVA  GADELICA  :  Colloquy  with  the  Ancients 
Circa  A.D.  1200 

CHILL  the  winter,  cold  the  wind, 
Up  the  stag  springs,  stark  of  mind  : 
Fierce  and  bare  the  mountain  fells — 
But  the  brave  stag  boldly  bells. 

He  will  set  not  side  to  rest 
On  Sliav  Carna's  snowy  breast  ; 
Echta's  stag,  also  rousing, 
Hears  wail  of  wolves  carousing. 

Cailte  I,  and  Diarmid  Bonn, 
Oft,  with  Oscar  apt  to  run, 
When  piercing  night  was  paling 
Heard  rousing  wolves  a-wailing. 

Sound  may  sleep  the  russet  stag, 
With  his  hide  hid  in  the  crag  ; 
Him,  hidden,  nothing  aileth 
When  piercing  night  prevaileth. 

I  am  aged  now  and  gray, 
Few  of  men  I  meet  this  day 
But  I  hurled  the  javelin  bold 
Of  a  morning,  icy  cold. 

Thanks  unto  the  King  of  Heaven, 
And  the  Virgin's  Son  be  given  : 
Many  men  have  I  made  still, 
Who  this  night  are  very  chill. 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  341 


LAY  OF  NORSE-IRISH  SEA-KINGS 

FROM  THE   IRISH   OF   ARTUR    MacGURCAICH,   THE   BLIND 

Dean  of  Lismore's  Book,  pp.  117-151.  Sweyn  has  been  Gaelicised  '  Suivne  ' 
and  '  Sweeney  —but  this  is  a  confusion  of  the  Norse  with  a  somewhat  similar 
Gaelic  name. ^Translator's  note. 

FAIR  our  fleet  at  Castle  Sweyn — 
Glad  good  news  for  Innisfail  ! — 
Never  rode  on  bounding  brine 
Barks  so  fine  with  soaring  sail. 

Tall  men  urge  the  ships  and  steer 
Our  light,  leaping,  valiant  van  ; 
Each  hand  holds  a  champion's  spear — 
Gay  of  cheer  is  ev'ry  man. 

Coats  of  black  the  warriors  wear 
On  the  barks  with  tree-mast  tall ; 
Broad  the  brown  belts  that  they  bear, 
Norse  and  Nobles  are  they  all. 

Sword-hilts  gold  and  iv'ry  gleam 
On  our  barks  with  banners  high  ; 
Hung  on  hooks  the  bucklers  beam, 
Sheaves  of  spears  are  standing  nigh. 

Purple  wings  our  ships  expand 
O'er  the  fleckt  and  flowing  wave  ; 
'Mid  the  masts  the  champions  stand 
Fit  for  foray,  mild  and  brave. 

Blue  is  the  sea  surrounding 
Prows  o'er  the  billows  bounding  ; 
Swords  in  their  sheaths  are  glowing, 
The  lances  thrill  for  throwing. 


342  BOOK   V 


Fair  are  the  forms  reclining 
On  the  cushioned  couches  high, 
Wives  in  their  beauty  shining 
'Neath  the  chequered  canopy. 

Silks  in  varied  fold  on  fold 
Clothe  our  king-ship  sailing  fast  j 
Silks  of  purple  splendour  hold 
Wells  of  wind  at  every  mast. 

There  is  seen  no  hardened  hand — 
Waist  of  worker  belted  tight  ; 
High- voiced  heroes  hold  command, 
Fond  of  music,  play,  and  fight. 

Ne'er  did  Finn  or  Fianna  know 
Gallant  chiefs  of  deeds  more  grand, 
Nor  could  Erinn  braver  show 
Than  this  fair-haired  battle  band. 

Swifter  ship  of  ships  there's  none — 
None  shall  go,  and  none  has  gone  ; 
Here  comes  nor  sigh  nor  sorrow, 
Night  or  noon,  day  or  morrow. 

Fleeter  bark  of  barks  ne'er  fared — 
Full  of  princely  folk  she  goes  ; 
Gold  with  bards  they've,  gen'rous,  shared 
While  the  foam-topt  ocean  flows. 

Who  took  this  fleet  together 
Close  to  the  high  hill  heather  ? 
Dauntless  he  ;  he  braves  the  blast — 
Claims  his  right  with  upraised  mast. 

Sail  the  ship,  Ion,  son  of  Sweyn  ! 
O'er  the  hard-backed  brilliant  brine  ; 
Raise  aloft  its  conq'ring  crown 
O'er  the  billows'  fret  and  frown. 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  343 

Many  welcomes,  many  smiles, 
Greet  our  ship,  'mid  Alba's  isles  ; 
Bards,  the  narrow  seas  among, 
Welcome  us  with  harp  and  song. 

Then  we  came  to  Castle  Sweyn, 
Like  a  bright  hawk  o'er  the  brine  ; 
By  that  rock  we  raised  the  fight, 
Facing  foes  with  fierce  delight. 

There  we  pierced  the  foreign  foes 
As  the  stinging  serpent  goes  ; 
Sore  we  smote  them,  men  and  lords, 
With  our  thin,  sharp,  shearing  swords. 

Chanting  Sweyn-son's  battle-song, 
All  the  surging  seas  along  ; 
Till  the  shore-rock,  tall  and  black, 
Over  ocean  sends  it  back. 

Vain  their  spears  and  swords  and  darts, 
Our  brown  bucklers  hold  our  hearts  ; 
Rocky  Rathlin,1  rousing,  hears 
Singing  of  our  swords  and  spears. 

That  thin  sword  is  Europe's  best, 
That  swift  spear  serves  each  behest ; 
Where  were  shield  safe  in  the  world 
When  the  victor  weapon's  hurled  ? 

Son  of  Sweyn,  whose  ways  are  wide, 
These  keen  arms  keeps  at  his  side  ; 
Be  it  now  the  blind  bard's  care 
Him  to  sing,  strong,  sage,  and  fair. 


An  isle  off  the  north  coast  of  Ireland. 


344  BOOK   V 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR 

FROM   THE   IRISH   OF   DIARMAD   O  CURNAIN 

O'Curnain  was  born  in  Cork  in  1740,  and  died  in  Modeligo,  Waterford,  in 
the  first  quarter  of  the  present  century.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  young 
farmer.  He  travelled  to  Cork  to  purchase  wedding  presents  for  his  betrothed, 
but  was  met  on  his  way  home  by  the  news  that  she  had  married  a  wealthy 
suitor.  He  flung  all  his  presents  into  the  fire,  and,  from  the  shock,  lost  his 
reason,  which  he  never  recovered.  He  was  known  to  several  persons  recently 
alive.  —  Translator 's  note. 

I  AM  desolate, 

Bereft  by  bitter  fate  ; 
No  cure  beneath  the  skies  can  save  me, 

No  cure  on  sea  or  strand, 

Nor  in  any  human  hand — 
But  hers,  this  paining  wound  who  gave  me. 

I  know  not  night  from  day, 

Nor  thrush  from  cuckoo  gray, 
Nor  cloud  from  the  sun  that  shines  above  thee — 

Nor  freezing  cold  from  heat, 

Nor  friend — if  friend  I  meet ; 
I  but  know — heart's  love  ! — I  love  thee. 

Love  that  my  life  began, 

Love  that  will  close  life's  span, 
Love  that  grows  ever  by  love-giving  ; 

Love  from  the  first  to  last, 

Love  till  all  life  be  passed, 
Love  that  loves  on  after  living  ! 

This  love  I  gave  to  thee, 

For  pain  love  has  given  me, 
Love  that  can  fail  or  falter  never — 

But,  spite  of  earth  above, 

Guards  thee,  my  Flower  of  love, 
Thou  Marvel-maid  of  life,  for  ever. 

Bear  all  things  evidence, 
Thou  art  my  very  sense, 


GEORGE  SIGERSON  345 


My  past,  my  present,  and  my  morrow  ! 

All  else  on  earth  is  crossed, 

All  in  the  world  is  lost — 
Lost  all,  but  the  great  love-gift  of  sorrow. 

My  life  not  life,  but  death  : 

My  voice  not  voice — a  breath  ; 
No  sleep,  no  quiet — thinking  ever 

On  thy  fair  phantom  face, 

Queen  eyes  and  royal  grace, 
Lost  loveliness  that  leaves  me  never. 

I  pray  thee  grant  but  this  : 

From  thy  dear  mouth  one  kiss, 
That  the  pang  of  death-despair  pass  over 

Or  bid  make  ready  nigh 

The  place  where  I  shall  lie, 
For  aye,  thy  leal  and  silent  lover. 


WHITLEY   STOKES 

MR.  WHITLEY  STOKES  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1830,  and  was 
the  eldest  son  of  William  Stokes,  M.D.,  Regius  Professor  of 
Medicine  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College.  A  pupil  of  A.  Cayley,  H.  M.  Cairns,  and 
T.  Chitty,  he  was  called  to  the  English  bar,  and  went  in  1862 
to  India,  where  he  became  Secretary  to  the  Government  in 
che  Legislative  Department,  Law  Member  of  the  Viceroy's 
Council,  and  President  of  the  Indian  Law  Commission.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  in  his  CELTIC 
LITERATURE,  wrote  of  Mr.  Whitley  Stokes  as  *  one  of  the 
very  ablest  scholars  formed  in  Zeuss's  school,  a  born  philologist 
—he  now  occupies,  alas  !  a  post  under  the  Government  of 
India.'  In  spite  of  this  disability,  however,  Mr.  Stokes, 
besides  THE  ANGLO-INDIAN  CODES  and  other  legal  works, 
has  produced  editions  and  translations  of  ancient  Irish  texts 


346  BOOK   V 


which  have  placed  him  at  the  head  of  Celtic  scholarship  in 
Europe,  and  have  revealed  to  modern  Irish  and  English 
readers  a  great  deal  of  what  is  best  in  ancient  Irish  literature. 
His  translation  of  the  tale  of  Deirdre,  in  Windisch  and 
Stokes's  IRISCHE  TEXTE,  Bd.  II. ,  has  given  us  the  noblest 
relic  of  that  literature  which  yet  survives  in  pure  and  un- 
mutilated  form.  He  has  published  the  Cornish  dramas — THE 
PASSION  (Berlin,  1862)  and  GUREANS  AN  BYS  ;  OR,  THE  CREA- 
TION OF  THE  WORLD  (1864),  edited  Old-Welsh  and  Old- 
Breton  glosses  ;  and  has  contributed  verse  to  The  Academy 
and  other  periodicals.  The  following  poems  are  founded  on 
Celtic  originals,  but  are  not  translations.  Mr.  Stokes  has 
received  the  orders  of  C.S.I,  and  C.I.E.,  and  is  an  honorary 
D.C.L.  of  Oxford,  an  honorary  LL.D.  of  Dublin  and  Edin- 
burgh, a  Foreign  Associate  of  the  Institute  of  France,  and  an 
honorary  member  of  the  German  Oriental  Society. 

LAMENT  FOR  KING  IVOR 

Place.  —The  south-west  coast  of  Ireland.  Time.—  The  middle  of  the  ninth 
century.  Author. — The  hereditary  bard  of  a  Kerry  clan.  Cause  of  making. — 
To  lament  his  King,  slain  in  battle  with  Danish  Vikings. 

THOU  golden  sunshine  in  the  peaceful  day  ! 

Thou  livid  lightning  in  the  night  of  war  ! 

Hearing  the  onrush  of  thy  battle-car, 
Who  could  endure  to  meet  thee  in  the  fray  ? 

Who  dared  to  see  thine  eyes  aflame  in  fight, 

Thou  stormer  through  the  whistling  storm  of  darts  ? 
Pourer  of  panic  into  heroes'  hearts  ! 

Our  hope,  our  strength,  our  glory,  our  delight ! 

Thy  soul  is  striding  down  the  perilous  road  ; 

And,  see,  the  ghosts  of  heathen  whom  thy  spear 

Laid  low,  arise  and  follow  in  their  fear 
Him  who  is  braver  than  their  bravest  god  ! 

Why  is  thy  soul  surrounded  by  no  more 

Of  thine  adoring  clansmen  ?     '  You  had  been 
Full  worthy,'  wouldst  thou  answer,  hadst  thou  seen 

The  charge  that  drove  the  pirates  from  our  shore. 


WHITLEY  STOKES  347 


But  thou  wast  lying  prone  upon  the  sand, 

Death-wounded,  blind  with  blood,  and  gasping  :  '  Go  ! 

Two  swords  are  somewhat  ;  join  the  rest.     I  know 
Another  charge  will  beat  them  from  the  land.' 

So  when  the  slaughter  of  the  Danes  was  done, 
We  found  thee  dead — a-stare  with  sunken  eyes 
At  those  red  surges,  and  bewailed  by  cries 

Of  sea-mews  sailing  from  the  fallen  sun. 

We  kissed  thee,  one  by  one,  lamenting  sore  : 

Men's  tears  have  washed  the  blood- stain  from  thy  brow  ; 
Thy  spear  and  sword  and  our  dear  lo\  e  hast  thou  : 

We  have  thy  name  and  fame  for  evermore. 

So  sang  the  warriors  to  their  clouded  star, 
King  Ivor,  as  thsy  heapt  his  cairn  on  high  ; 
A  landmark  to  the  sailor  sailing  by, 

A  warning  to  the  spoiler  from  afar. 

KING  AILILL'S  DEATH 

FROM   THE    EARLY   MIDDLE   IRISH 

Book  of  Leinster,  fol.  214 

I  KNOW  who  won  the  peace  of  God, 

King  Ailill,  called  « the  Beardless  Man  ; ' 

Who  fought  beyond  the  Irish  Sea 
All  day  against  a  Connaught  clan. 

His  host  was  broken  :  as  he  fled 

He  muttered  to  his  charioteer  : 
'Look  back— the  slaughter,  is  it  red? 

The  slayers,  are  they  drawing  near  ? ' 

The  boy  looks  back.     The  west  wind  blows 
Dead  clansmen's  hair  against  his  face  ; 

He  heard  the  war-shout  of  his  foes, 
The  death-cry  of  his  ruined  race. 

The  foes  came  darting  from  the  height, 
Like  pine  trees  down  a  flooded  fall : 
Like  heaps  of  hay  in  spate,  his  clan 
•  Swept  on  or  sank — he  saw  it  all. 


348  BOOK   V 


And  spake  :  '  The  slaughter  is  full  red, 
But  we  may  still  be  saved  by  flight.' 

Then  groaned  the  king  :  '  No  sin  of  theirs 
Falls  on  my  people  here  to-night  : 


'  No  sin  of  theirs,  but  sin 

For  I  was  worst  of  evil  kings  ; 
Unrighteous,  wrathful,  hurling  down 

To  death  or  shame  all  weaker  things. 

{  Draw  rein,  and  turn  the  chariot  round  : 
My  face  against  the  foeman  bend  • 

When  I  am  seen  and  slain,  mayhap 
The  slaughter  of  my  tribe  will  end.' 

They  drew,  and  turned.     Down  came  the  foe, 
The  king  fell  cloven  on  the  sod  ; 

The  slaughter  then  was  stayed,  and  so 
King  Ailill  won  the  peace  of  God. 


MAN  OCTIPARTITE 

FROM  THE   MIDDLE   IRISH 

Cod.  Clarend.  (Mus.  Brit.),  vol.  xv.  fol.  70,  col.  i 

THUS  sang  the  sages  of  the  Gael 
A  thousand  years  ago  well-nigh  : 
'  Hearken  how  the  Lord  on  high 
Wrought  man,  to  breathe  and  laugh  and  wail, 
To  hunt  and  war,  to  plough  and  sail, 
To  love  and  teach,  to  pray  and  die  ! ' 

Then  said  the  sages  of  the  Gael : 

*  Of  parcels  eight  was  Adam  built. 

The  first  was  earth,  the  second  sea, 

The  third  and  fourth  were  sun  and  cloud, 

The  fifth  was  wind,  the  sixth  was  stone, 

The  seventh  was  the  Holy  Ghost, 

The  last,  the  Light  which  lighteth  God.' 


WHITLEY  STOKES  349 


Then  sang  the  sages  of  the  Gael : 

*  Man's  body,  first,  was  built  of  earth 
To  lodge  a  living  soul  from  birth, 
And  earthward  home  again  to  go 
When  Time  and  Death  have  spoken  so. 
Then  of  the  sea  his  blood  was  dight 
To  bound  in  love  and  flow  in  fight. 
Next,  of  the  sun,  to  see  the  skies, 
His  face  was  framed  with  shining  eyes. 
From  hurrying  hosts  of  cloud  was  wrought 
His  roaming,  rapid- changeful  thought. 
Then  of  the  wind  was  made  his  breath 
To  come  and  go  from  birth  to  death. 
And  then  of  earth-sustaining  stone 
Was  built  his  flesh-upholding  bone. 
The  Holy  Ghost,  like  cloven  flame, 
The  substance  of  his  soul  became  ; 
Of  Light  which  lighteth  God  was  made 
Man's  conscience,  so  that  unafraid 
His  soul  through  haunts  of  night  and  sin 
May  pass  and  keep  all  clean  within. 

'  Now,  if  the  earthiness  redound, 
He  lags  through  life  a  slothful  hound. 
But,  if  it  be  the  sea  that  sways, 
In  wild  unrest  he  wastes  his  days. 
Whene'er  the  sun  is  sovran,  there 
The  heart  is  light,  the  face  is  fair. 
If  clouds  prevail,  he  lives  in  dreams 
A  deedless  life  of  gloom  and  gleams. 
'  If  stone  bear  rule,  he  masters  men, 
And  ruthless  is  their  ransom  then. 
But  when  the  wind  has  won  command, 
His  word  is  harder  than  his  hand. 
The  Holy  Ghost,  if  He  prevail, 
Man  lives  exempt  from  lasting  bale, 
And,  gazing  with  the  eyes  of  God, 
Of  all  he  sees  at  home,  abroad, 


350  BOOK   V 


Discerns  the  inmost  heart,  and  then 
Reveals  it  to  his  fellow-men, 
And  they  are  truer,  gentler,  more 
Heroic  than  they  were  before. 

*  But  he  on  whom  the  Light  Divine 
Is  lavished  bears  the  sacred  sign, 
And  men  draw  nigh  in  field  or  mart 
To  hear  the  wisdom  of  his  heart. 
For  he  is  calm  and  clear  of  face, 
And  unperplexed  he  runs  his  race, 
Because  his  mind  is  always  bent 
On  Right,  regardless  of  event. 

*  Of  each  of  those  eight  things  decreed 
To  make  and  mould  the  human  breed, 
Let  more  or  less  in  man  and  man 

Be  set  as  God  has  framed  His  plan. 
But  still  there  is  a  ninth  in  store 
(Oh  grant  it  now  and  evermore  !) — - 
Our  Freedom,  wanting  which,  we  read, 

The  bulk  of  earth,  the  strength  of  stone, 
The  bounding  life  o'  the  sea,  the  speed 

Of  clouds,  the  splendour  of  the  sun, 
The  never-flagging  flight  of  wind, 

The  fervour  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

The  Light  before  the  angels*  host, 
Though  all  be  in  our  frame  combined, 
Grow  tainted,  yea,  of  no  avail.' 

So  sang  the  sages  of  the  Gael. 


JOHN   TODHUNTER 

DR.  TODHUNTER'S  gifts  and  tastes  are  very  various.  While  it 
is  not  quite  certain  whether  his  versatility  has  been  the  most 
favourable  ally  of  his  poetic  genius,  that  it  has  contributed 
charms  to  his  poetic  productions  is  unquestionable.  Few 


JOHN  TOD  HUNTER  351 


poets  have  been  able  to  interpret  the  emotions  of  music  in 
another  art  more  effectively  than  he.  His  '  In  a  Gondola ' 
(written  in  Trinity  College  Park,  when  he  was  an  under- 
graduate) exhibits  this  power  to  a  remarkable  degree,  and  he 
has  written  no  more  genuine  poems  than  the  series  in  which 
he  describes  the  essential  characteristics  of  the  music  of 
Mendelssohn,  Beethoven,  and  Rossini.  In  these  poems  he 
conducts  the  reader  into  a  region  of  imagination  to  which  no 
man  who  is  not  a  poet  ever  finds  his  way  alone.  His  eye  for 
colour  and  form  enables  him  to  describe  the  objects  of  Nature 
with  extreme  minuteness—  a  faculty  which  recalls  that  of  Keats, 
united  with  a  manner  which,  no  doubt,  has  been  suggested  by 
Keats.  The  rhythmic  swing  and  verbal  melody  which  abound 
in  some  of  his  poems  make  us  miss  them  all  the  more  in  poems 
in  which  he  seems  deliberately  to  neglect  them.  His  love  of 
the  stage,  his  intelligent  appreciation  of  the  greatest  works  of 
the  greatest  dramatists,  and  his  eye  for  stage  grouping  and 
stage  effects,  have  induced  him  to  write  dramas  ;  but  there  is 
little  doubt  that  he  has  excelled  most  in  his  lyrical  poems. 
His  humour  asserts  itself  most  successfully — certainly  most 
agreeably — in  '  Laurella,'  which,  though  closely  following 
Paul  Heyse's  tale,  is  yet  an  original  and  delightful  narrative 
poem.  In  this  poem  the  difficult  ottava  rima  is  handled, 
frequently  after  the  fashion  of  *  Beppo '  and  '  Don  Juan,' 
with  skill  and  dexterity  ;  and  the  narrative  is  so  condensed,  so 
well  proportioned,  and  so  well  arranged,  that  one  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  author,  if  he  had  chosen,  might  have 
developed  into  one  of  the  brightest  and  pleasantest  of  our 
story-tellers  in  verse.  Until  about  the  year  1888  he  does  not 
seem  to  have  turned  his  attention  to  his  native  country.  In 
his  principal  poems  on  Irish  themes  he  has  discarded  rhyme 
in  his  regular  lyrical  measures— a  dangerous  experiment  until 
something  better  and  more  pleasing  to  the  ear  can  be  provided 
as  a  substitute  for  it.  Dr.  Todhunter  }  ossesses  a  priceless 
gift,  without  which  no  man  need  ever  hope  to  be  a  poet  of  the 
highest  order — he  is  a  thinker  •  all  that  he  has  written  in  verse 
and  prose  bears  upon  it  the  attractive  impress  of  a  mind 


352  BOOK   V 


that  has  grown  rich  by  reading  and  by  thought,  and  refined  by 
long  self-culture  ;  and  he  has  at  times  attained  loftier  altitudes 
in  poetry  than  most  Irish  poets  have  been  able  to  approach. 

G.  F.  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG. 

Dr.  John  Todhunter,  the  elder  son  of  an  eminent  Dublin  merchant, 
was  born  in  Dublin  on  December  30,  1839.  Both  his  parents  being 
members  of  the  society  of  Friends,  he  received  his  early  education  at 
Quaker  schools  at  Mountmellick  and  York.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he 
was  placed  in  a  mercantile  establishment  in  Ireland,  but,  emancipating 
himself  from  uncongenial  employment,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
in  1 86 1,  with  the  intention  of  studying  for  the  medical  profession.  After 
a  college  career  of  much  distinction  he  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  in  1865, 
M.B.  in  1866,  and  M.D.  in  1871,  and  in  1871  also  a  Diploma  in  State 
Medicine,  which  had  been  instituted  in  that  year.  After  rambles  and 
studies  on  the  Continent  he  settled  in  Dublin,  to  practise,  in  1870. 
Between  1870  and  1874  he  was  Assistant  Physician  to  the  Cork  Street 
Fever  Hospital  in  Dublin,  and  also  Lecturer  in  English  Literature  at 
Alexandra  College.  He  acted  also  as  one  of  the  Honorary  Secretaries  of 
the  Dublin  Sanitary  Association,  which  did  good  service  in  examining  and 
exposing  the  sanitary  condition  of  the  Dublin  slums.  In  1874,  resigning 
his  appointments  for  the  purpose  of  devoting  himself  exclusively  to 
literature,  he  left  Dublin,  and  has  since  resided  chiefly  in  London,  making 
occasional  visits  to  the  Continent  and  more  distant  lands. 

Dr.  Todhunter's  works  are:  LAUREI.LA  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  1876; 
ALKESTIS  (a  Drama),  1879  ;  A  STUDY  OF  SHELLEY,  1880  ;  THE  TRUE 
TRAGEDY  OF  RIENZI,  1881  ;  FOREST  SONGS,  1881 ;  HELENA  IN  TROAS 
(produced  at  Hengler's  Circus  as  an  imitation  of  a  Greek  play),  1885  ; 
THE  BANSHEE  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  1888  ;  A  SICILIAN  IDYLL  (pro- 
duced at  the  theatre  of  the  Club,  Bedford  Park,  and  at  the  Vaudeville), 
1891  ;  THE  POISON-FLOWER  (produced  at  the  Vaudeville),  1891  ;  THE 
BLACK  CAT  (produced  by  the  Independent  Theatre  Society),  1893  ;  A 
LIFE  OF  SARSFIELD,  1895  >  THREE  BARDIC  TALES,  1896  ;  and  various 
essays  and  pamphlets. 

MORNING  IN  THE  BAY  OF  NAPLES 

From  LAURELLA 

LIKE  a  great  burst  of  singing  came  the  day, 

After  the  dawn's  soft  prelude,  from  heaven's  cave  ; 

Swooping  to  clasp  the  billowy-bosomed  bay 
In  his  ecstatic  arms,  wooing  each  wave 


JOHN  TODHUNTER  353 


To  give  him  kiss  for  kiss.     His  glorious  way 

Was  pioneered  by  the  brisk  winds,  which  gave 
New  life  to  the  waking  world,  and  filled  each  sense 
With  measureless  desire  and  hopes  immense. 

In  short,  it  was  a  most  delicious  morn  — 

What  clouds  there  were  soared  in  the  upper  sky, 

Or  round  the  mountains  died  as  they  were  born 
In  the  bright  haze  that  clung  mysteriously 

To  the  dim  coast.     An  Amalthea's  horn 

Of  rathe  delight  seemed  emptied  from  on  high 

On  all  the  progeny  of  land  and  sea — 

Shore-maidens  sang  and  sea  birds  shrieked  for  glee. 

There  was  a  breath  of  fragrance  in  the  air 
That  stole  upon  the  spirit  like  young  love  ; 

An  incense  wafted  from,  you  knew  not  where  — 
From  thymy  dell  and  seaweed-scented  cove. 

Ocean  and  earth  had  found  each  other  fair, 

And  mingled  their  fresh  lips — the  tamarisk  grove 

Sighed  for  the  kiss  of  the  wave,  and  waves  leapt  up 

To  yield  the  winds  dew  for  the  myrtle's  cup. 

THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  THE  THREE  SONS  OF  TURANN, 
WHICH  TURANN,  THEIR  FATHER,  MADE  OVER  THEIR  GRAVE 

THE  LITTLE  LAMENTATION1 

I 

Low  lie  your  heads  this  day, 
My  sons  !  my  sons, 
Make  wide  the  grave,  for  I  hasten 
To  lie  down  among  my  sons. 

II 

Bad  is  life  to  the  father 
In  the  house  without  a  son, 
Fallen  is  the  House  of  Turann, 
And  with  it  I  lie  low. 

1  From  THREE  IRISH  BARDIC  TALES,  by  John  Todhunter,  1896. 

A  A 


354  BOOK    V 


THE   FIRST   SORROW 

I 

The  staff  of  my  age  is  broken  ! 
Three  pines  I  reared  in  Dun-Turann 
Brian,  luchar,  lucharba, 
Three  props  of  my  house  they  were. 

II 

They  slew  a  man  to  their  wounding, 
In  the  fierceness  of  their  youth  ! 
For  Kian,  the  son  of  Cainte, 
Their  comely  heads  lie  low. 

in 

A  dreadful  deed  was  your  doing, 
My  sons  !  my  sons  ! 
No  counsel  ye  took  with  me 
When  ye  slew  the  son  of  Caintd 

IV 

A  bad  war  with  your  hands 

Ye  made  upon  Innisfail, 

A  bad  feud  on  your  heads 

Ye  drew  when  ye  slew  no  stranger. 


And  cruel  was  the  blood-fine 
That  Lugh  of  the  outstretched  arm, 
The  avenging  son  of  Kian, 
Laid  on  you  for  his  father. 

VI 

Three  apples  he  claimed,  a  sow-skin, 
A  spear,  two  steeds  and  a  war-car, 
Seven  swine,  and  a  staghound's  whelp, 
A  spit,  three  shouts  on  a  mountain. 


JOHN  TODHUNTER  355 

VII 

A  little  eric  it  seemed 

For  the  blood  of  De-Danaan  ; 

A  paltry  eric  and  foolish, 

Yet  there  was  death  for  the  three  ! 


THE  SECOND   SORROW 

I 

Crafty  was  Lugh,  when  he  laid 
The  fine  on  the  sons  of  Turann, 
And  pale  we  grew  when  we  fathomed 
The  mind  of  the  son  of  Kian. 

II 

Three  apples  of  gold  ye  brought  him 
From  the  far  Hesperian  garden  ; 
Ye  slew  the  King  of  Greece 
For  the  skin  that  heals  all  wounds. 

in 

Ye  took  from  the  King  of  Persia 
The  spear  more  deadly  than  dragons  ; 
It  keeps  the  world  in  danger 
With  the  venom  of  its  blade. 

IV 

Ye  won  from  the  King  of  Sicil 
His  horses  and  his  war-car  ; 
The  fleetness  of  wings  their  fleetness, 
Their  highway  the  land  and  the  sea. 


The  King  of  the  Golden  Pillars 
Yielded  the  swine  to  your  challenge  ; 
Each  night  they  smoked  at  the  banquet, 
Each  morning  they  lived  again. 

A  A  2 


356  BOOK   V 


VI 


Ye  took  from  the  King  of  Iceland 
His  hound,  like  the  sun  for  splendour  ; 
Ye  won  by  your  hands  of  valour 
Those  wonders,  and  brought  them  home. 


VII 


But  short  was  the  eric  of  Lugh 
When  your  hearts  grew  hungry  for  Turann  ; 
For  Lugh  had  laid  upon  you 
Forgetfulness  by  his  craft. 


THE   GREAT   LAMENTATION 

I 

Death  to  the  sons  of  Turann 

Had  Lugh  in  his  crafty  mind  : 

'  Yet  lacks  of  my  lawful  eric 

The  spit,  three  shouts  on  the  mountain.' 


The  strength  of  the  babe  was  left  us 
At  the  hearing  of  that  word — 
Brian,  luchar,  lucharba, 
Like  dead  men  they  fell  down. 

in 

But  Brian  your  courage  kindled, 

My  sons  !  my  sons  ! 

For  the  Island  of  Finchory 

A  year  long  ye  searched  the  seas. 

IV 

Then  Brian  set  the  clearness 
Of  crystal  upon  his  forehead, 
And,  his  water-dress  around  him, 
Dived  through  the  waves'  green  gloom. 


JOHN  TODHUNTER  357 


Days  twice-seven  was  he  treading 
The  silent  gloom  of  the  deep, 
His  lanterns  the  silver  salmon, 
To  the  sea-sunk  Isle  of  Finchory. 


VI 


Soft  shone  the  moony  splendour 
Of  the  magic  lamps  of  Finchory  ; 
There  sat  in  their  hall  of  crystal 
The  red-haired  ocean-wraiths. 


VII 


Twice-fifty  they  sat  and  broidered 
With  pearls  their  sea-green  mantles  ; 
But  Brian  strode  to  their  kitchen 
And  seized  a  spit  from  the  rack. 


VIII 


Soft  rippled  their  silvery  laughter, 
Like  the  laughter  of  summer  wavelets  : 
*  Strong  is  the  son  of  Turann, 
But  stronger  the  weakest  here. 


IX 


*  And  now,  should  we  withstand  thee, 
No  more  shouldst  thou  see  thy  brothers. 
Yet  keep  the  spit  for  thy  daring  ; 
Brian,  we  love  the  bold.' 


SONG 

BRING  from  the  craggy  haunts  of  birch  and  pine 

Thou  wild  wind,  bring, 
Keen  forest  odours  from  that  realm  of  thine, 

Upon  thy  wing  ! 


358  BOOK   V 


O  wind,  O  mighty,  melancholy  wind, 

Blow  through  me,  blow  ! 
Thou  blowest  forgotten  things  into  my  mind 

From  long  ago. 

BEETHOVEN 

Music  as  of  the  winds  when  they  awake, 

Wailing,  in  the  mid  forest ;  music  that  raves 

Like  moonless  tides  about  forlorn  sea-caves 
On  desolate  shores,  where  swell  weird  songs  and  break 
In  peals  of  demon  laughter  ;  chords  athirst 

With  restless  anguish  of  divine  desires — 

The  voice  of  a  vexed  soul  ere  it  aspires 
With  a  great  cry  for  light ;  anon  a  burst 
Of  passionate  joy — fierce  joy  of  conscious  might, 

Down-sinking  in  voluptuous  luxury  ; 
Rich  harmonies,  full-pulsed  with  deep  delight, 

And  melodies  dying  deliciously 
As  odorous  sighs  breathed  through  the  quiet  night 

By  violets.     Thus  Beethoven  speaks  for  me. 

THE  FATE  OF  THE  SONS  OF  UsNA.1 
From  THE  FIRST  DUAN  :  THE  COMING  OF  DEIRDRE 

So  Kings  and  Chiefs  and  Bards,  in  Eman  of  the  Kings, 
Feasted  with  Felimy  ;  and  rank  and  order  due 
Were  kept  between  them  all,  each  Bard,  or  Chief,  or  King 
Being  marshalled  to  his  place  by  stewards  of  the  feast. 
But  Conchobar  alone  came  armed  into  the  hall. 

And  there  the  amber  mead,  crowning  the  golden  cup, 
Welcomed  each  noble  guest.     There  Conall  Carnach  sat, 
Whose  eyes,  renowned  in  song,  the  blue  eye  and  the  brown, 
Abashed  his  foes  ;  but  now  beamed  kindly  as  he  pledged 

1  From  THREE  IRISH  BARUIC  TALES,  1896.  Deirdre  was  the  Helen 
of  the  Irish  Iliad,  and  the  story  of  her  elopement  with  Naisi  and  the 
vengeance  taken  by  King  Conchobar  on  the  pair  forms  the  most  celebrated 
of  Irish  bardic  tales. 


JOHN  TODHUNTER  359 

The  man  of  glorious  heart  who  laughed  a  realm  away — 
Fergus  MacRoy  ;  who  now  pledged  him  again,  and  laughed, 
With  frank  heart-easing  roar,  the  laugh  that  all  men  loved. 

So  Fergus  laughed,  and  looked  a  mighty  man  of  men  ; 
Ruddy  his  face,  and  red  the  great  beard  on  his  breast, 
Fergus,  whose  heart  contained  the  laughter  and  the  tears 
Of  all  the  world  ;  who  held  the  freedom  of  his  mood, 
Love,  and  the  dreaming  harp  that  made  the  world  a  dream, 
The  comradeship  offcasts,  the  wild  joy  of  the  chase, 
Dearer  than  power  ;  Fergus,  who  sang  in  after-years 
The  raid  of  red  Queen  Meave,  the  wasting  of  the  Branch, 
Breaches  in  famous  loves,  long  wars,  and  deaths  renowned 
Of  many  a  feaster  there  ;  where  Conall  now  in  mirth 
Pledged  his  old  friend,  whose  son  ere  long  by  him  should  fall. 

And  there  Fardia  felt  the  broad  hand  of  his  death 
Laid  on  his  shoulder  now  in  comrade's  love  ;  for  there, 
A  friend  beside  his  friend,  unarmed  Cuchullin  sat, 
Like  a  swift  hound  for  strength  and  graceful  slenderness, 
In  the  first  flower  of  his  youth  ;  the  colours  of  his  face 
Fresh  as  the  dawning  day,  and  in  his  clear  blue  eyes 
The  glad  undaunted  light  of  life's  unsullied  morn. 

There  in  his  royal  state,  a  grave  man  among  Kings, 

Sat  Conchobar,  still,  stern.     The  dark  flame  of  his  face 

Tamed,  as  the  sun  the  stars,  all  faces  else  :  a  face 

Of  subtle  splendour  ;  brows  of  wisdom,  broad  and  high, 

Where  strenuous  youth  had  scored  the  runes  of  hidden  power 

Not  easily  read  ;  a  mouth  pliant  for  speech,  an  eye 

Whose  ambushed  fires  at  need  could  terribly  outleap 

In  menace  or  command,  mastering  the  wills  of  men. 

He  wore  upon  him  all  the  colours  of  a  King 
By  ancient  laws  ordained  :  the  three  colours,  the  white, 
Crimson,  and  black  ;  with  these  blending,  by  ancient  law, 
The  four  colours,  the  red,  yellow,  and  green,  and  blue, 
Enriched  with  gleaming  gold.     But  subtly  Conchobar 
Loved  to  display  the  seven  fair  colours  of  a  King 
Inwoven  and  intertwined  in  traceries  quaint  and  rare  ; 
And  his  keen  eye  would  search  the  play  of  shimmering  hues, 


360  BOOK   V 


Even  as  his  ear  the  turns  and  tricks  of  tuneful  art 

Of  skilled  harpers.     For  craft  of  hand  as  craft  of  mind 

Was  ever  his  delight,  and  subtle  as  his  mind 

Ever  his  dress.     No  King  in  splendour  was  his  peer ; 

Each  looked  a  gaudy  clown,  at  vie  with  Conchobar. 

Over  his  chair  of  state  four  silver  posts  upheld 

A  silken  canopy  ;  and  by  him  were  his  arms  : 

'  The  Hawk,'  his  casting-spear,  that  never  left  his  hand 

But  death  sang  in  its  scream  ;  and,  in  its  jewelled  sheath, 

His  sword,  '  Flame  of  the  Sea,'  won  by  his  sires,  of  yore, 

From  some  slain  Eastern  King — the  blade,  with  wizard  spells, 

Tempered  in  magic  baths  under  the  Syrian  moon. 

But  in  the  House  of  Arms  bode  his  long  thrusting-spear, 

'  Spoil-winner ; '  there,  too,  bode,  far-famed  in  bardic  song, 

*  The  Bellower,'  his  great  shield,  seven-bossed,  whose  pealing  voice, 

Loud  o'er  the  battle's  roar,  would  call  its  vassal  waves, 

The  wave  of  Toth,  tjie  wave  of  Rury,  and  the  wave 

Of  Cleena,  the  three  waves,  to  thunder  on  their  shores, 

Ireland's  three  magic  waves,  at  danger  of  her  King. 

On  the  High- King's  right  hand  sat  Cathvah,  that  white  peer 

Of  hoary  Time,  like  Time  wrinkled  and  hoar  ;  the  beard 

Upon  his  breast,  the  hair  upon  his  druid  head 

Wintered  with  eld ;  Cathvah,  whose  voice  was  like  a  sea's 

For  mystery  and  awe,  and  like  the  brooding  sea 

Blue  were  his  druid  eyes,  and  sad  with  things  to  come. 

And  on  his  left  was  set  old  Shancha  of  the  Laws, 
His  Councillor  ;  none  lived  wiser  in  all  the  lore 
Of  statecraft,  and  the  laws  and  customs  of  old  time. 
Thin  was  his  shaven  face  ;  deep  under  the  black  brows 
Gleamed  his  keen  eyes  that  weighed  coldly  each  thing  they  saw  ; 
Long  was  his  head  and  high,  fringed  round  with  silver  hair  ; 
Smooth  as  an  egg  above,  where  baldness  on  the  dome 
Sat  in  grave  state,  yet  looked  no  blemish  where  it  sat. 
These  two  after  the  King  were  honoured  in  the  hall. 

On  wings  of  song  flew  by  the  hastening  day,  and  song 
Led  in  the  hooded  night,  soft  stealing  on  the  feast ; 
And  without  stint  the  wife  of  Felimy  the  Bard 


JOHN  TODHUNTER  361 

Crowned  the  great  horn  with  ale,  with  mead  the  golden  cup, 

To  circle  the  great  hall.     Praised  for  her  open  hand, 

She  served  with  nimble  cheer,  though  now  her  hour  drew  nigh. 

But  when  the  hearts  of  all  were  merry,  and  their  brains 
Hummed  with  the  humming  ale,  and  drowsily  the  harps 
Murmured  of  deeds  long  done,  till  sleep  with  downy  wing 
Fanned  heavy  lids,  a  cry — a  thin,  keen,  shuddering  cry — 
Rang  eerily  through  the  hall,  dumbing  all  tongues,  for  lo  ! 
Foreboding  birth's  dread  hour,  loud  shrieked  the  babe  unborn. 

Then  cheeks  grew  pale  that  ne'er  in  danger's  grimmest  hour 

Failed  of  their  wholesome  red  ;  and  ghastly  looks  met  looks 

As  ghastly  in  the  eyes  of  champions  whose  proud  names 

Were  songs  of  valour.     First  came  loosing  of  the  tongue 

To  Felimy.     His  words  shook  on  the  breath  of  fear  : 

'Woman,  what  woeful  voice  that  rends  my  heart  like  steel, 

Keenes  from  thee  now?  '    His  wife  with  trembling  hands  of  prayer 

Sank  pale  at  Cathvah's  feet :  '  From  what  night-shrieking  wraith, 

O  Druid,  came  that  voice  ?     A  hand  of  ice  is  laid 

Upon  my  heart  :  the  keene  comes  to  the  house  of  death  ! ' 

And  Cathvah  said  :  *  A  child  cries  in  the  gate  of  birth 
For  terror  of  this  world  ;  yet  shall  she  be  the  queen 
Of  all  this  world  for  beauty.     Ushered  by  fear  she  comes, 
And  "  Dread  "  shall  be  her  name  ;  Deirdre'  I  name  her  now, 
For  dear  shall  Eri  dree  her  beauty  and  her  birth.' 

Then,  with  her  pangs  upon  her,  the  mother  from  the  hall 
Was  hurried  by  her  maids  ;  and  ere  they  rose  that  night 
A  wail  was  in  the  house,  for  Death  came  to  that  birth, 
And  Deirdre"'s  mother  passed  with  the  coming  of  her  child. 

Anon  the  aged  crones  that  haunt  with  equal  feet 
The  house  of  joy  or  tears,  pnestesses  hoar  like-skilled 
In  rites  of  death  or  birth,  solemnly  up  the  hall 
Paced  slow,  bearing  the  babe  ;  and  with  a  weeping  word, 
'  Thy  dead  wife  sends  thee  this,'  laid  it  in  its  father's  arms. 
And  Felimy  bent  down  and,  dazed  with  sudden  grief, 
Kissed  it  without  a  tear.     Then  Cathvah  took  the  child 
And  o'er  its  new-born  head  murmured  his  druid  song  : 


362  BOOK   V 


THE  DRUID   SONG  OF  CATHVAH 

I 

O  Deirdre,  terrible  child, 
For  thee,  red  star  of  our  ruin, 
Great  weeping  shall  be  in  Eri — 
Woe,  woe,  and  a  breach  in  Ulla  ! 


The  flame  of  thy  dawn  shall  kindle 
The  pride  of  Kings  to  possess  thee, 
The  spite  of  Queens  for  thy  slander  : 
In  seas  of  blood  is  thy  setting. 

Ill 

War,  war  is  thy  bridesmaid, 
Thou  soft,  small  whelp  of  terror  ; 
Thy  feet  shall  trample  the  mighty, 
Yet  stumble  on  heads  thou  lovest. 

IV 

The  little  heap  of  thy  grave 
Shall  dwell  in  thy  desolation  ; 
Sad  songs  shall  wail  over  Eri 
Thy  dolorous  name,  O  Deirdr^  ! 

To  the  nurse  he  gave  the  child.     In  silence  from  the  hall 
Deirdrd  was  borne.     Anon  the  vast  hush  of  the  night 
Was  filled  with  dreadful  sound  :  the  shield  of  Conchobar, 
Raising  its  brazen  voice  within  the  House  of  Arms, 
Bellowed ;  and  at  its  call  a  mighty  voice  they  knew 
Thundered  from  the  far  shore,  the  voice  of  the  great  Wave 
Of  Rury.     And  the  voice  of  the  great  Wave  of  Toth, 
And  the  great  Wave  of  Cleena,  answered  him  from  afar, 
Thundering  upon  their  shores  at  danger  of  their  King.1 

1  According  to  the  legend,  the  magic  shield  of  Conchobar  roared  like 
the  sea  when  the  king  was  in  danger,  and  the  seas  of  Erinn  answered  it, 
thundering  upon  their  beaches. 


JOHN  TODHUNTER  363 


FAIRY  GOLD 

A    BALLAD    OF    '48 

BUTTERCUPS  and  daisies  in  the  meadow, 

And  the  children  pick  them  as  they  pass, 
Weaving  in  the  sunlight  and  the  shadow 

Garlands  for  each  little  lad  and  lass  ; 
Weave  with  dreams  their  buttercups  and  daisies, 

As  the  poor  dead  children  did  of  old. 
Will  the  dreams,  like  sunshine  in  their  faces, 

Wither  with  their  flowers  like  Fairy  Gold? 

Once,  when  lonely  in  Life's  crowded  highway, 

Came  a  maiden  sweet,  and  took  my  hand, 
Led  me  down  Love's  green  delightful  byway, 

Led  me  dreaming  back  to  Fairyland. 
But  Death's  jealous  eye  that  lights  on  lovers 

Looked  upon  her,  and  her  breast  grew  cold, 
And  my  heart's  delight  the  green  sod  covers, 

Vanished  from  my  arms  like  Fairy  Gold  ! 

Then  to  Ireland,  my  long-suffering  nation, 

That  poor  hope  life  left  me  yet  I  gave  ; 
With  her  dreams  I  dreamed,  her  desolation 

Found  me,  called  me,  desolate  by  that  grave. 
Once  again  she  raised  her  head,  contending 

For  her  children's  birthright  as  of  old  ; 
Once  again  the  old  fight  had  the  old  ending, 

All  her  hopes  and  dreams  were  Fairy  Gold. 

Now  my  work  is  done  and  I  am  dying, 

Lone,  an  exile  on  a  foreign  shore  ; 
But  in  dreams  roam  with  my  love  that's  lying 

Lonely  in  the  old  land  I'll  see  no  more. 
Buttercups  and  daisies  in  the  meadows 

When  I'm  gone  will  bloom  ;  new  hopes  for  old 
Comfort  her  with  sunshine  after  shadows, 

Fade  no  more  away  like  Fairy  Gold. 


364  BOOK   V 


WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM 

IN  his  beautiful  and  touching  preface  to  IRISH  SONGS  AND 
POEMS,  published  in  1887,  Allingham  dwells  upon  his  love 
for  Ballyshannon,  his  native  home — a  place  of  primitive  and 
kindly  folk,  a  place  of  haunting  loveliness.  His  heart  clung  to 
it  always.  He  came  to  form  friendships  and  interests  and 
ways  of  life  which  might  have  turned  him  into  a  very  English 
poet  and  man :  he  became  intimate  with  Tennyson  and 
Carlyle,  with  Rossetti,  Patmore,  Millais,  and  the  Pre-raphaelites 
at  large.  Much  of  his  work  was  influenced  by  these  English 
artists,  and  he  was  probably  more  at  home  with  them  than 
with  his  own  countrymen  of  letters.  He  was  not  bound  to 
Ireland  by  any  crusading  passion  of  Nationalism  :  he  even  had 
something  of  that  detachment  which  sometimes  accompanies  a 
devotion  to  art.  But  his  early  home  kept  him  Irish  at  the 
heart.  His  most  popular  poem  in  Ireland  is  his  *  Emigrant's 
Farewell ' — that  *  adieu  to  Ballyshannon  and  the  winding 
banks  of  Erne'  which  is  sung  to-day  by  wandering  singers 
who  never  heard  of  Allingham,  and  has  become  a  classic 
lament  among  his  own  people.  Though  not  of  peasant  stock, 
he  had  all  the  peasant's  passion  for  the  old  home  with  its 
memories  and  associations,  and  in  him  it  blossomed  into 
poetry,  poignant  and  simple  and  sincere.  We  are  told  that  in 
twilight  walks  about  Ballyshannon  he  would  listen  to  girls 
singing  old  ballads  at  their  cottage  doors  :  if  imperfect  or 
crude,  he  would  complete  and  correct  them,  have  them  printed 
in  the  old-fashioned  broadsheet  form,  and  have  them  sold 
or  distributed  about  the  district.  Then,  like  Goldsmith  in 
Dublin,  but  under  happier  conditions,  he  would  listen 
delightedly  to  the  sound  of  his  own  verses.  Most  of  his  Irish 
themes  come  from  local  legends  and  ways,  from  his  loving 
knowledge  of  that  countryside  and  shore  '  on  the  extreme 
western  verge  of  Europe,'  as  the  moving  preface  to  IRISH 
SONGS  AND  POEMS  puts  it.  His  longest  work  upon  an  Irish 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  365 

theme  is  a  novel  in  verse,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of 
Crabbe,  though  without  his  tragic  power  and  with  more  of 
Goldsmith's  gentleness.  LAURENCE  BLOOMFIELD  IN  IRELAND 
abounds  in  excellent  portraits  of  Irish  scenery  and  society. 
The  great  Russian  writer,  Turgenev,  said  upon  reading  it  :  *  I 
never  understood  Ireland  before.'  The  poet  himself  said 
of  it  :  '  Alas  !  when  all's  done,  who  will  like  it  ?  Think  of 
the  Landlord  and  Tenant  Question  in  flat  decasyllabics  ! ' 
Despite  the  poem's  many  incidental  merits,  that  self-criticism 
is  not  unjust.  In  truth,  Allingham's  power  was  not  in  poems 
of  any  considerable  length  :  he  was  a  lyrist,  and  not  an  inspired 
writer  of  narrative  or  dramatic  poems.  *  Perfection,'  he  wrote, 
*  seems  to  me  the  most  inalienable  quality  of  a  poem.  From 
the  chaos  of  incident  and  reflection  arise  the  rounded  worlds 
of  poetry,  and  go  singing  on  their  way.'  But,  as  Rossetti  said 
of  Allingham's  *  Music  Master,'  the  longer  poems,  though 
'  full  of  beauty  and  nobility,'  are  *  perhaps  too  noble  or  too 
resolutely  healthy  : '  the  strenuous  conscientiousness  of  com- 
position results  in  some  lack  of  charm.  Tennyson,  Rossetti, 
and  Mr.  Ruskin  agreed  in  an  ardent  admiration  of  Allingham's 
lyrics,  his  flying  or  sighing  snatches  of  song  ;  and  the  loveliest 
of  these  are  among  his  DAY  AND  NIGHT  SONGS,  with  which 
Mr.  Ruskin  was  *  most  delighted,'  declaring  that  '  some  of  it 
is  heavenly.'  Here  we  find  all  his  better  qualities :  his 
wistful,  smiling  Irish  humour  and  sympathy  with  Irish 
character,  with  Irish  ways  and  scenes  ;  his  delicate  love  of 
Nature  and  earth's  creatures,  with  children,  and  with  the  faery 
world  of  fancy  and  myth  ;  his  uncomplaining  pensiveness  at 
the  memory  of  the  past,  of  old  time,  *  little  things '  that  his 
heart  remembers.  Sunt  lacrimce  rerum  et  mentem  mortalia 
tangunt  is  very  much  the  burden  of  his  best  singing  :  yet  he 
can  sing  blithely  enough  of  Kitty  O'Hea,  and  Mary  Donnelly, 
and  '  Kate  O'Belashanny,'  or  celebrate  with  artful  homeliness 
of  tone  the  good  labours  of  country  man  and  maid,  of  the 
toilers  of  the  sea.  *  Most  comforting  and  gentle  thoughts  I 
had:'  so  runs  the  last  line  of  a  very  familiar  poem,  and  it 
expresses  the  feeling  with  which  most  of  Allingham's  readers 


366     >  BOOK   V 


lay  down  his  lyrics.  For  if  these  poems  are  often  sad,  it  is 
with  a  sane  and  wholesome  sadness.  As  Rossetti  wrote  to  a 
friend  in  1871  :  'another  happy  man,  after  all,  seems  to  be 
Allingham,  for  all  his  want  of  "  success."  Nothing  but  the 
most  absolute  calm  and  enjoyment  of  outside  Nature  could 
account  for  so  much  gadding  about  on  the  soles  of  his  two 
feet.'  Not  all  his  poems  of  action  are  failures  :  once  or  twice 
he  has  caught  the  fierce  old  Irish  note  of  Ferguson.  But  we 
chiefly  remember  him  as  a  poet  whose  aerial,  yEolian  melodies 
steal  into  the  heart — a  poet  of  twilight  and  the  evening  star, 
and  the  sigh  of  the  wind  over  the  hills  and  waters  of  an 
Ireland  that  broods  and  dreams.  His  music  haunts  the  ear 
with  its  perfect  simplicity  of  art,  the  cunning  of  its  quiet 
cadences.  Song  upon  song  makes  no  mention,  direct  or 
indirect,  of  Ireland  :  yet  an  Irish  atmosphere  and  temperament 
are  to  be  felt  in  almost  all.  Hawthorne,  who  resembles 
Allingham,  both  in  official  position  and  in  artistic  quality  and 
kind,  described  his  looks  as  '  intelligent,  dark,  pleasing,  and 
not  at  all  John-Bullish.'  As  the  outer  aspect  of  the  man,  so 
his  characteristic  work — the  work  of  a  poet  who  was  many 
things,  but  always  and  essentially  an  Irishman  of  the  secluded 
west,  with  ancient  visions  and  ponderings  in  his  heart,  and  the 
gift  of  tears  and  smiles.  He  stands  somewhat  lonely  and 
apart  from  the  Irish  poets  of  his  time  :  he  belonged  to  the 
minority  in  religious  and  political  faith  ;  he  was  nothing  of  an 
Irish  scholar,  able  to  draw  inspiration  from  Gaelic  literature  ; 
he  lived  in  no  centre  of  Irish  literary  society.  He  passed  along 
his  way  alone,  with  a  heart  responding,  a  soul  vibrating,  to 
the  voices  of  Nature  and  of  tranquil  lives  :  and  to  him  those 
voices  came  in  Irish.  He  wrote  much  ambitious  work  which 
may  not  live  :  he  lacked  concentrated  strength  and  energy  of 
imagination  to  succeed  in  the  loftiest  and  most  elaborate 
strains.  But  his  lyric  voice  of  singular  sweetness,  his  Muse  of 
passionate  or  pensive  meditation,  his  poetic  consecration  of 
common  things,  his  mingled  aloofness  and  homeliness,  assure 
him  a  secure  place  among  the  poets  of  his  land  and  the  Irish 
voices  which  never  will  fall  silent.  And  though  'the  Irish 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  367 

cause'  receives  from  him  but  little  direct  encouragement  or 
help,  let  it  be  remembered  that  Allingham  wrote  this  great  and 
treasurable  truth  : 

We're  one  at  heart,  if  you  be  Ireland's  friend, 
Though  leagues  asunder  our  opinions  tend  : 
There  are  but  two  great  parties  in  the  end. 

LIONEL  JOHNSON. 

William  Allingham  was  born,  in  1824,  at  Ballyshannon,  in  the  County 
Donegal.  He  had  his  early  education  at  his  native  place,  and  at  the  age 
of  fourteen  became  a  clerk  in  the  town  bank,  of  which  his  father  was 
manager.  In  this  employment  he  passed  seven  dissatisfied  years,  during 
which  his  chief  delight  was  in  reading  and  in  acquiring  foreign  literature. 
An  opening  was  then  found  for  him  in  the  Customs  Office,  and  after  two 
years'  preliminary  training  at  Belfast  he  returned  to  Ballyshannon  as 
Principal  Officer.  In  1847  he  visited  London  for  the  first  time,  and  the 
rest  of  his  life  was  largely  spent  in  England,  where  he  received  various 
official  appointments.  He  retired  from  the  Government  service  in  1870, 
when  he  became  sub-editor,  under  Mr.  Froude,  of  Fraser's  Magazine.  In 
1874  he  succeeded  him  as  editor.  Some  years  before  he  had  been  granted 
a  pension  for  his  literary  services.  In  the  same  year  (1874)  he  married,  and 
he  died  at  Hampstead  in  1889.  He  was  a  fairly  prolific  writer,  both  in 
verse  and  prose  :  his  first  volume  appeared  in  1850,  and  there  is  a  posthu- 
mous edition  of  his  works  in  six  volumes.  No  Life  of  him  has  been  written, 
but  the  LETTERS  OF  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  TO  WILLIAM  ALLING- 
HAM, edited  and  annotated  by  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill,  with  a  valuable  intro- 
duction, record  the  chief  facts  of  his  life  and  literary  friendships. 

Allingham's  principal  volumes  are:  POEMS,  1850;  DAY  AND  NIGHT 
SONGS,  1854;  THE  Music  MASTER,  &c.,  1855  (containing  Rossetti's 
illustration  of  '  The  Maids  of  Elfin-Mere  '  which  moved  Burne-Jones  to 
become  a  painter);  FIFTY  MODERN  POEMS,  1865;  LAURENCE  BLOOM- 
FIELD  IN  IRELAND:  A  MODERN  POEM,  1864;  with  SONGS,  BALLADS,  AND 
STORIES,  1877  ;  EVIL  MAY-DAY,  1883  ;  ASHBY  MANOR  :  A  PLAY,  1883  ; 
FLOWER  PIECES,  1888  ;  LIFE  AND  PHANTASY,  1889  ;  BLACKBERRIES, 
1896. 

HARP 


WHAT  is  it  that  is  gone  we  fancied  ours  ? 
Oh,  what  is  lost  that  never  may  be  told  ?  — 
We  stray  all  afternoon,  and  we  may  grieve 
Until  the  perfect  closing  of  the  night 


368  BOOK   V 


Listen  to  us,  thou  gray  Autumnal  Eve, 
Whose  part  is  silence.     At  thy  verge  the  clouds 
Are  broken  into  melancholy  gold  ; 
The  waifs  of  Autumn  and  the  feeble  flow'rs 
Glimmer  along  our  woodlands  in  wet  light  ; 
Within  thy  shadow  thou  dost  weave  the  shrouds 
Of  joy  and  great  adventure,  waxing  cold, 
Which  once,  or  so  it  seemed,  were  full  of  m'ght. 
Some  power  it  was,  that  lives  not  with  us  now, 
A  thought  we  had,  but  could  not,  could  not  hold. 
Oh,  sweetly,  swiftly  pass'd  ! — air  sings  and  murmurs 
Green  leaves  are  gathering  on  the  dewy  bough  : 
Oh,  sadly,  swiftly  pass'd  ! — air  sighs  and  mutters  ; 
Red  leaves  are  dropping  on  the  rainy  mould. 
Then  comes  the  snow,  unfeatured,  vast,  and  white. 
Oh,  what  has  gone  from  us,  we  fancied  ours  ? 


A  GRAVESTONE 

FAR  from  the  churchyard  dig  his  grave, 
On  some  green  mound  beside  the  wave  ; 
To  westward,  sea  and  sky  alone, 
And  sunsets.     Put  a  massy  stone, 
With  mortal  name  and  date,  a  harp 
And  bunch  of  wild  flowers,  carven  sharp  ; 
Then  leave  it  free  to  winds  that  blow, 
And  patient  mosses  creeping  slow, 
And  wandering  wings,  and  footstep  rare 
Of  human  creature  pausing  there. 


THE  BAN-SHEE 

A   BALLAD   OF   ANCIENT   ERIN 

*  HEARD'ST  thou  over  the  Fortress  wild  geese  flying  and  crying  ? 
Was  it  a  gray  wolf's  howl  ?  wind  in  the  forest  sighing  ? 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  369 


Wail  from  the  sea  as  of  wreck  ?   Hast  heard  it,  Comrade  ?'     *  Not 

so. 
Here,  all's  still  as  the  grave,  above,  around,  and  below. 

'  The  Warriors  lie  in  battalion,  spear  and  shield  beside  them, 
Tranquil,  whatever  lot  in  the  coming  fray  shall  betide  them. 
See,  where  he  rests,  the  Glory  of  Erin,  our  Kingly  Youth  ! 
Closed  his  lion's  eyes,  and  in  sleep  a  smile  on  his  mouth.' 

*  The  cry,  the  dreadful  cry  !     I  know  it — louder  and  nearer, 
Circling  our  Dun— the  Ban-shee  \ — my  heart  is  frozen  to  hear  her  ! 
Saw  you  not  in  the  darkness  a  spectral  glimmer  of  white 
Flitting  away  ? — I  saw  it  ! — evil  her  message  to-night. 

*  Constant,  but  never  welcome,  she,  to  the  line  of  our  Chief; 
Bodeful,  baleful,  fateful,  voice  of  terror  and  grief. 

Dimly  burneth  the  lamp— hush  !  again  that  horrible  cry  !— 
If  a  thousand  lives  could  save  thee,  Tierna,  thou  shouldest  not 
die.' 

Now  !    what  whisper  ye,  Clansmen  ?     I  wake.     Be  your  words 

of  me  ? 

Wherefore  gaze  on  each  other  ?     I  too  have  heard  the  Ban-shee. 
Death  is  her  message  :  but  ye,  be  silent.     Death  comes  to  no  man 
Sweet  as  to  him  who  in  fighting  crushes  his  country's  foeman. 

'  Streak  of  dawn  in  the  sky — morning  of  battle.     The  Stranger 
Camps  on  our  salt-sea  strand  below,  and  recks  not  his  danger. 
Victory  ! — that  was  my  dream  :  one  that  shall  fill  men's  ears 
In  story  and  song  of  harp  after  a  thousand  years. 

Give  me  my  helmet   and  sword.     Whale-tusk,   gold-wrought,  I 

clutch  thee  ! 
Blade,  Flesh-Biter,  fail  me  not  this  time  !     Yea,  when  I  touch 

thee, 

Shivers  of  joy  run  through  me.     Sing  aloud  as  I  swing  thee  ! 
Glut  of  enemies'  blood,  meseemeth,  to-day  shall  bring  thee. 

*  Sound  the  horn  !     Behold,  the  Sun  is  beginning  to  rise. 
Whoso  seeth  him  set,  ours  is  the  victor's  prize, 

When  the  foam  along  the  sand  shall  no  longer  be  white  but  red — 
Spoils  and  a  mighty  feast  for  the  Living,  a  earn  for  the  Dead.' 

B  B 


370  BOOK   V 


THE  FAIRIES    * 
A  CHILD'S  SONG 

UP  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch- dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  grey, 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again, 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow  ; 


WILLIAM  A  LUNCH  AM  371 

They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees, 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 


THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE  ; 
OR,  THE  EMIGRANT'S  ADIEU  TO  BALLYSHANNON 

A   LOCAL   BALLAD 


ADIEU  to  Belashanny  !  where  I  was  bred  and  born  ; 

Go  where  I  may,  I'll  think  of  you,  as  sure  as  night  and  morn — 

The  kindly  spot,  the  friendly  town,  where  every  one  is  known, 

And  not  a  face  in  all  the  place  but  partly  seems  my  own  ; 

There's  not  a  house  or  window,  there's  not  a  field  or  hill, 

But,  east  or  west,  in  foreign  lands,  I'll  recollect  them  still. 

I  leave   my  warm   heart   with   you,   tho'  my  back  I'm  forced   to 

turn — 
So  adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

B  n  2 


372  BOOK    V 


ii 

No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we'll  saunter  down  the  Mall, 
When  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  salmon  to  the  fall. 
The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,  and  heavily  she  creeps. 
Cast  off !  cast  off !   she  feels  the  oars,  and  to  her  berth  she 

sweeps  ; 

Now  fore  and  aft  keep  hauling,  and  gathering  up  the  clew, 
Till  a  silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among  the  crew. 
Then  they  may  sit,  with  pipes  a-lit,  and  many  a  joke  and  '  yarn  — 
Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

in 

The  music  of  the  waterfall,  the  mirror  of  the  tide, 
When  all  the  green-hill' d  harbour  is  full  from  side  to  side — 
From  Portnasun  to  Bulliebawns,  and  round  the  Abbey  Bay, 
From  rocky  Inis  Saimer  to  Coolnargit  sand-hills  gray  ; 
While  far  upon  the  southern  line,  to  guard  it  like  a  wall, 
The  Leitrim  mountains  clothed  in  blue  gaze  calmly  over  all, 
And  watch  the  ship  sail  up  or  down,  the  red  flag  at  her  stern — 
Adieu  to  these,  adieu  to  all  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

IV 

Farewell  to  you,  Kildoney  lads,  and  them  that  pull  an  oar, 
A  lug-sail  set,  or  haul  a  net,  from  the  Point  to  Mullaghmore  ; 
From  Killybegs  to  bold  Slieve- League,  that   ocean-mountain 

steep, 

Six  hundred  yards  in  air  aloft,  six  hundred  in  the  deep, 
From  Dooran  to  the  Fairy  Bridge,  and  round  by  Tullen  strand, 
Level  and  long,  and  white  with  waves,  where  gull  and  curlew 

stand  ; 

Head  out  to  sea  when  on  your  lee  the  breakers  you  discern — 
Adieu  to  all  the  billowy  coast  and  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

V 

Farewell,  Coolmore  !  Bundoran  !  and  your  summer  crowds  that 

run 

From  inland  homes  to  see  with  joy  th'  Atlantic-setting  sun  ; 
To  breathe  the  buoyant  salted  air,  and  sport  among  the  waves  ; 
To  gather  shells  on  sandy  beach,  and  tempt  the  gloomy  caves  ; 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  373 

To  watch  the  flowing,  ebbing  tide,  the  boats,  the  crabs,  the  fish  ; 
Young  men  and  maids  to  meet   and  smile,  and  form  a  tender 

wish  ; 
The  sick  and  old  in  search  of  health,  for  all  things  have  their 

turn — 
And    I    must   quit   my  native   shore   and   the  winding   banks  of 

Erne  ! 

VI 

Farewell  to  every  white  cascade  from  the  Harbour  to  Belleek, 
And  every  pool  where  fins  may  rest,  and  ivy-shaded  creek  ; 
The  sloping  fields,  the  lofty  rocks,  where  ash  and  holly  grow, 
The  one  split  yew-tree  gazing  on  the  curving  flood  below  ; 
The  Lough,  that  winds  through  islands  under   Turaw  mountain 

green  ; 
And    Castle    Caldwell's    stretching    woods,    with    tranquil    bays 

between  ; 

And  Breesie  Hill,  and  many  a  pond  among  the  heath  and  fern — 
For  I  must  say  adieu — adieu  to  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

VII 

The  thrush  will  call  through  Camlin  groves  the  livelong  summer 

day; 

The  waters  run  by  mossy  cliff,  and  bank  with  wild  flowers  gay  ; 
The  girls  will  bring  their  work  and  sing  beneath  a  twisted  thorn, 
Or  stray  with  sweethearts  down  the  path  among  the  growing  corn  ; 
Along  the  riverside  they  go,  where  I  have  often  been — 
Oh  !  never  shall  I  see  again  the  days  that  I  have  seen  ! 
A  thousand  chances  are  to  one  I  never  may  return — 
Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne. 

VIII 

Adieu  to  evening  dances,  when  merry  neighbours  meet, 

And  the  fiddle  says  to  boys  and  girls  :   '  Get  up  and  shake  your 

feet ! ' 

To  '  shanachus '  and  wise  old  talk  of  Erin's  days  gone  by — 
Who  trench'd  the   rath  on   such   a   hill,   and   where  the   bones 

may  lie 

Of  saint,  or  king,  or  warrior  chief  ;  with  tales  of  fairy  power, 
And  tender  ditties  sweetly  sung  to  pass  the  twilight  hour. 


374  BOOK   V 


The  mournful  song  of  exile  is  now  for  me  to  learn — 
Adieu,  my  dear  companions  on  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

IX 

Now  measure  from  the  Commons  down  to  each  end  of  the  Purt, 
Round  the  Abbey,  Moy,  and  Knather — I  wish  no  one  any  hurt ; 
The  Main  Street,  Back  Street,  College  Lane,  the  Mall,  and 

Portnasun, 

If  any  foes  of  mine  are  there,  I  pardon  every  one. 
I  hope  that  man  and  womankind  will  do  the  same  by  me  ; 
For  my  heart  is  sore  and  heavy  at  voyaging  the  sea. 
My  loving  friends  I'll  bear  in  mind,  and  often  fondly  turn 
To  think  of  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne. 

x 

If  ever  I'm  a  money'd  man,  I  mean,  please  God,  to  cast 

My  golden  anchor  in  the  place  where  youthful  years  were  pass'd  ; 

Though  heads  that  now  are  black  and  brown  must  meanwhile 

gather  gray, 

New  faces  rise  by  every  hearth,  and  old  ones  drop  away — 
Yet  dearer  still  that  Irish  hill  than  all  the  world  beside  ; 
It's  home,  sweet  home,  where'er  I  roam,  through  lands  and  waters 

wide. 

And  if  the  Lord  allows  me,  I  surely  will  return 
To  my  native  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne. 

THE  RUINED  CHAPEL 

BY  the  shore,  a  plot  of  ground 
Clips  a  ruin'd  chapel  round, 
Buttress'd  with  a  grassy  mound, 

Where  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
.  And  bring  no  touch  of  human  sound. 

Washing  of  the  lonely  seas, 
Shaking  of  the  guardian  trees, 
Piping  of  the  salted  breeze  ; 

Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
To  the  endless  tune  of  these. 

Or  when,  as  winds  and  waters  keep 
A  hush  more  dead  than  any  sleep, 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  375 

Still  morns  to  stiller  evenings  creep, 

And  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by  ; 
Here  the  silence  is  most  deep. 

The  empty  ruins,  lapsed  again 

Into  Nature's  wide  domain, 

Sow  themselves  with  seed  and  grain 

As  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by  ; 
And  hoard  June's  sun  and  April's  rain. 

Here  fresh  funeral  tears  were  shed  ; 

Now  the  graves  are  also  dead  ; 

And  suckers  from  the  ash-tree  spread, 

While  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
And  stars  move  calmly  overhead. 

THERANIA 

O  UNKNOWN  Belov'd  One  !  to  the  perfect  season 
Branches  in  the  lawn  make  drooping  bovv'rs  ; 

Vase  and  plot  burn  scarlet,  gold,  and  azure  ; 

Honeysuckles  wind  the  tall  gray  turret, 
And  pale  passion-flow'rs. 

Come  thou,  come  thou  to  my  lonely  thought, 
O  Unknown  Belov'd  One. 

Now,  at  evening  twilight,  dusky  dew  down-wavers, 

Soft  stars  crown  the  grove-encircled  hill  ; 
Breathe  the  new-mown  meadows,  broad  and  misty  ; 
Through  the  heavy  grass  the  rail  is  talking  ; 

All  beside  is  still. 
Trace  with  me  the  wandering  avenue, 

O  Unknown  Belov'd  One. 

In  the  mystic  realm,  and  in  the  time  of  visions, 

I  thy  lover  have  no  need  to  woo  ; 
There  I  hold  thy  hand  in  mine,  thou  dearest, 
And  thy  soul  is  mine,  and  feels  its  throbbing, 

Tender,  deep,  and  true  : 
Then  my  tears  are  love,  and  thine  are  love, 
O  Unknown  Belov'd  One. 


376  BOOK    V 


Is  thy  voice  a  wavelet  on  the  listening  darkness  ? 

Are  thine  eyes  unfolding  from  their  veil  ? 
Wilt  thou  come  before  the  signs  of  winter — 
Days  that  shred  the  bough  with  trembling  fingers, 

Nights  that  weep  and  wail? 
Art  thou  Love  indeed,  or  art  thou  Death, 
O  Unknown  Belov'd  One? 


STOPFORD   AUGUSTUS   BROOKE 

BORN  at  Glendoen,  Letterkenny,  County  Donegal,  1832. 
B.A.  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  1856  ;  M.A.  1862.  Entered  the 
Church  of  England,  and  was  for  some  time  Chaplain  to  the 
British  Embassy  at  Berlin.  Mr.  Brooke  joined  the  Unitarian 
body  in  1880.  His  poetical  works  are  :  RIQUET  OF  THE  TUFT, 
a  romantic  drama  in  prose  and  verse  (1880)  ;  and  POEMS,  1888. 
He  is  author  of  a  well-known  biography  of  the  Rev.  Frederick 
W.  Robertson,  of  a  HISTORY  OF  EARLY  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 
a  study  of  Tennyson,  and  several  volumes  of  sermons.  He 
succeeded  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  in  1899  as  President  of  the 
Irish  Literary  Society  of  London. 


THE  NOBLE  LAY  OF  AILLINN 
AFTER  AN  IRISH  TALE  FROM  THE  '  BOOK  OF  LEINSTER 

PRINCE  BAIL£  of  Ulster  rode  out  in  the  morn 

To  meet  his  love  at  the  ford  ; 
And  he  loved  her  better  than  lands  or  life, 

And  dearer  than  his  sword. 

And  she  was  Aillinn,  fair  as  the  sea, 

The  Prince  of  Leinster's  daughter, 
And  she  longed  for  him  more  than  a  wounded  man, 

Who  sees  death,  longs  for  water. 


STOPFORD  AUGUSTUS  BROOKE  377 


They  sent  a  message  each  to  each : 

*  Oh,  meet  me  near  or  far  ; ' 
And  the  ford  divided  the  kingdoms  two, 

And  the  kings  were  both  at  war. 

And  the  Prince  came  first  to  the  water's  pass, 

And  oh,  he  thought  no  ill  : 
When  he  saw  with  pain  a  great  grey  man 

Come  striding  o'er  the  hill. 

His  cloak  was  the  ragged  thunder-cloud, 

And  his  cap  the  whirling  snow, 
And  his  eyes  were  the  lightning  in  the  storm, 

And  his  horn  he  'gan  to  blow. 

'  What  news,  what  news,  thou  great  grey  man  ? 

I  fear  'tis  ill  with  me.' 
'  Oh,  Aillinn  is  dead,  and  her  lips  are  cold, 

And  she  died  for  loving  thee.' 

And  he  looked  and  saw  no  more  the  man, 

But  a  trail  of  driving  rain. 
*  Woe  !  woe  ! '  he  cried,  and  took  his  sword 

And  drave  his  heart  in  twain. 

And  out  of  his  blood  burst  forth  a  spring, 
And  a  yew-tree  out  of  his  breast  ; 

And  it  grew  so  deep,  and  it  grew  so  high, 
The  doves  came  there  to  rest. 

But  Aillinn  was  coming  to  keep  her  tryst, 

The  hour  her  lover  fell  ; 
And  she  rode  as  fast  as  the  western  wind 

Across  the  heathery  hill. 

Behind  her  flew  her  loosened  hair, 

Her  happy  heart  did  beat  ; 
When  she  was  'ware  of  a  cloud  of  storm 

Came  driving  down  the  street 


378  BOOK   V 


And  out  of  it  stepped  a  great  grey  man, 
And  his  cap  was  peaked  with  snow  ; 

The  fire  of  death  was  in  his  eyes, 
And  he  3gan  his  horn  to  blow. 

4  What  news,  what  news,  thou  great  grey  man  ? 

And  is  it  ill  to  me  ? ' 
<  Oh,  Baile  the  Prince  is  dead  at  the  ford, 

And  he  died  for  loving  thee.1 

Pale,  pale  she  grew,  and  two  large  tears 

Dropped  down  like  heavy  rain, 
And  she  fell  to  earth  with  a  woeful  cry, 

For  she  broke  her  heart  in  twain. 

And  out  of  her  tears  two  fountains  rose 

That  watered  all  the  ground, 
And  out  of  her  heart  an  apple-tree  grew 

That  heard  the  water's  sound. 

Oh,  woe  were  the  kings,  and  woe  were  the  queens, 

And  woe  were  the  people  all  ; 
And  the  poets  sang  their  love  and  their  death 

In  cottage  and  in  hall. 

And  the  men  of  Ulster  a  tablet  made 

From  the  wood  of  Baile's  tree, 
And  the  men  of  Leinster  did  the  like 

Of  Aillinn's  apple-tree. 

And  on  the  one  the  poets  wrote 

The  lover-tales  of  Leinster, 
And  on  the  other  all  the  deeds 

That  lovers  wrought  in  Ulster. 

Now  when  a  hundred  years  had  gone 

The  King  of  all  the  land 
Kept  feast  at  Tara,  and  he  bade 

His  poets  sing  a  strand. 


STOP  FORD  AUGUSTUS  BROOKE  379 

They  sang  the  sweet  unhappy  tale, 

The  noble  Aillinn's  lay. 
4  Go,  bring  the  tablets,'  cried  the  King 

'  For  I  have  wept  to-day.' 

But  when  he  held  in  his  right  hand 

The  wood  of  Haile's  tree 
And  in  his  left  the  tablet  smooth 

From  Aillinn's  apple-tree, 

The  lovers  in  the  wood  who  kept 

Love-longing  ever  true, 
Knew  one  another,  and  at  once 

From  the  hands  of  the  king  they  flew. 

As  ivy  to  the  oak  they  clung, 

Their  kiss  no  man  could  sever — 
Oh,  joy  for  lovers  parted  long 

To  meet,  at  last,  for  ever  ! 


THE  EARTH  AND  MAN 

A  LITTLE  sun,  a  little  rain, 

A  soft  wind  blowing  from  the  west, 

And  woods  and  fields  are  sweet  again, 
And  warmth  within  the  mountain's  breast 

So  simple  is  the  earth  we  tread, 

So  quick  with  love  and  life  her  frame, 

Ten  thousand  years  have  dawned  and  fled, 
And  still  her  magic  is  the  same. 

A  little  love,  a  little  trust, 

A  soft  impulse,  a  sudden  dream, 

And  life  as  dry  as  desert  dust 

Is  fresher  than  a  mountain  stream. 

So  simple  is  the  heart  of  man, 
So  ready  for  new  hope  and  joy  ; 

Ten  thousand  years  since  it  began 
Have  left  it  younger  than  a  boy. 


38o  BOOK  V 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES 

THERE  is  a  story  current,  according  to  which  Mr.  A.  P.  Graves 
was  once  informed  by  a  young  gentleman  whom  he  had 
casually  met  in  a  club-room  that  there  was  no  one  now  living 
who  could  write  really  good  and  racy  Irish  songs — 'such  songs, 
for  instance,  as  "  Father  O'Flynn." '  Another  would-be  critic — a 
lady  this  time,  doubtless  otherwise  well  informed — was  until  cor- 
rected under  the  impression  that  Mr.  Graves  lived  in  the  time 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Nothing,  I  think,  could  afford  more  con- 
vincing testimony  than  do  these  anecdotes  (for  the  authenticity 
of  which  the  present  writer  can  vouch)  to  the  extent  to  which 
certain  of  Alfred  Perceval  Graves's  songs  and  lyrics  have  passed 
into  the  general  literary  treasury  of  the  Irish  people  and 
have  been  accepted  as  accurate  embodiments  of  the  national 
character  in  music  and  song. 

Of  these  ballads  and  lyrics,  mainly  written  for  music  and 
constituting  no  doubt  the  most  popular  and  the  most  widely 
known  portion  of  his  literary  work,  I  shall  necessarily  have 
something  to  say  presently.  But  I  wish  to  observe  at  the 
outset  that  to  those  who  have  studied  Mr.  Graves's  work  in  its 
entirety,  it  is  an  inadequate  estimate  of  his  literary  position  which 
represents  him  as  the  successor  of  Samuel  Lover,  and  which, 
having  compared  one  or  two  of  his  songs  with  some  of  Lover's 
or  with  Charles  Lever's  'Widow  Malone,' dismisses  him  without 
further  notice.  Not  only  has  he  a  distinctly  individual  note  of 
his  own,  but  there  is  in  his  work  ample  evidence  of  wider  scope 
and  greater  variety.  He  may  not  have  surpassed — perhaps  he 
has  not  surpassed — his  predecessors  in  the  line  which  Lover 
made  so  peculiarly  his  own,  and  in  which  others  have  occasion- 
ally attained  high  excellence  ;  it  is  high  enough  praise,  in 
this  respect,  to  place  him  at  their  side.  But  he  has  also  given 
us  work  which  they  could  not  have  done — or,  at  least,  which 
they  did  not  do — and  exercised  an  influence  to  which  they  did 
not  aspire. 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  381 

Let  us  remember,  in  developing  this  proposition,  that  this 
is  an  age  in  which  the  cultivation  of  literature  in  dialect  has 
attained,  throughout  all  Europe,  dimensions  hitherto  unknown. 
No  one  who  has  not  had  occasion  to  look  into  the  matter  has 
any  idea  of  the  number  of  dialects  in  Germany  and  in  Italy 
alone  which  have  been  raised  during  the  past  half-century  from 
the  despised  position  of  vulgar  patois  to  something  like  the 
dignity  of  written  literature.  In  Provence — to  change  the 
field  of  observation — we  should  be  able  to  find  the  most 
notable  instance  of  this  re-integration,  were  it  not  doubtful 
whether  Provencal  had  ever  forfeited  its  rank  as  a  separate 
language,  and  whether  therefore  the  parallel  to  be  drawn 
should  not  be  between  the  Provei^al  and  the  Gaelic  move- 
ments. But  innumerable  other  cases  may  be  pointed  out  in 
which  the  dialect  is  in  reality  an  ancient  though  a  neglected 
branch — a  poor  cousin,  so  to  speak— of  the  classical  literary 
tongue,  differing  from  the  latter  partly  because  it  has  preserved 
old  forms  and  peculiarities  which  the  language  of  the  Court  and 
the  bookmen  has  suffered  to  fall  into  oblivion,  partly  because 
it  has  been  influenced  by  the  grammar,  the  idioms,  and  the 
vocabulary  of  another  and  often  a  more  ancient  language,  with 
which  it  has  come  locally  in  contact  This  is  precisely  the 
position  of  the  Anglo- Irish  dialect,  which,  as  spoken  and 
written  to-day,  shows  clear  traces  not  only  of  the  English 
of  Elizabethan  and  even  earlier  days,  but  also  of  the  manner 
of  thought,  and  consequently  of  construction  and  wording, 
resultant  upon  the  familiarity  of  the  speaker  or  of  his  ancestors 
with  the  ancient  Celtic  tongue. 

The  study  of  such  a  dialect  is  at  once  a  matter  of  scientific 
importance,  and  one  of  great  and  often  loving  interest  to  the 
native  of  the  land  wheie  it  is  spoken  ;  and  the  better  an  Irish- 
man speaks  English,  the  more  he  is  enabled  to  appreciate  the 
resources  and  the  raciness  of  what  may  be  called  (apart  from 
Gaelic,  which  is  a  separate  tongue)  his  native  dialect.  Cer- 
tainly, the  reproduction  of  Anglo-Irish  in  books  written 
mainly  in  English  began  long  ago,  both  in  prose  and  in  songs 
such  as  Lover's ;  but  however  accurate  the  representation  of  the 


382  BOOK   V 


peasants'  forms  of  speech,  and  however  amusing  the  substance 
and  brilliant  the  execution  of  such  pieces  may  be  (no  one 
wishes  to  detract  from  their  merit  less  than  the  present  writer), 
there  has,  generally  speaking,  been  an  absence  of  serious  effort 
in  this  line,  so  far  as  verse  is  concerned.  It  is  in  this  connec- 
tion that,  without  going  so  far  as  to  number  Mr.  Graves 
among  the  greatest  writers  — those  who  create  a  literary  vehicle 
or  build  up  a  language  by  individual  effort — I  claim  for  him 
the  honourable  distinction  of  having  caused  Anglo-Irish  litera- 
ture in  verse  to  take  a  distinct  step  forwards.  In  '  The  Girl 
with  the  Cows,'  in  his  first  volume,  we  have,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  first  instance  of  a  really  excellent  long  narrative  in  verse 
written  in  this  dialect  and,  notwithstanding  the  racy  humour  of 
the  style  and  manner  of  expression,  of  serious  import. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  no  doubt  true  that  Mr.  Graves  owes  a 
great  part  of  his  popularity  to  the  fact  that  he  has  caught  the 
ear  of  the  public  by  the  successful  production  of  songs  of  the 
Irish  peasantry  not  dissimilar  to  those  on  which  Lover's  repu- 
tation is  founded  ;  nor  is  it  in  any  way  derogatory  to  his 
literary  position  to  admit  that  many  of  his  keenest  admirers 
might  not  be  so  familiar  with  his  verse  as  they  are,  had  it  not 
in  many  cases  been  wedded  to  beautiful  and  characteristic 
Irish  music.  This  very  fact  constitutes,  indeed,  an  essential 
portion  of  his  achievement,  and  gives  him  a  notable  claim  to 
the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen.  The  services  which  he  has 
done  to  the  cause  of  Irish  music  by  rescuing  from  oblivion  a 
large  number  of  fine  old  airs  would  not  perhaps  require  more 
than  passing  notice  here,  but  for  the  fact  that  the  words  to 
which  he  has  set  them  attain  in  many  instances  to  a  degree  of 
literary  merit  not  often  found  in  work  of  this  kind.  The  art 
of  writing  verse  for  music  already  existing — an  inversion,  as 
most  poets  are  in  the  habit  of  thinking,  of  the  natural  order  of 
affairs — is,  no  doubt,  a  trick  easy  enough  to  catch,  if  the  writer 
is  content  to  remain  on  that  level  of  meaningless  inanity  and 
sham  sentiment  above  which  the  ordinary  drawing-room  song 
does  not  usually  attempt  to  soar.  But  to  produce,  under 
conditions  much  more  difficult  than  most  people  are  apt  to 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  383 

suppose,  work  of  this  kind  that  shall  be  true  literature— true 
poetry — is  an  achievement  so  difficult  that  but  few  have  suc- 
ceeded in  it.  Nor  do  I  pretend  that  Mr.  Graves  has  in  every 
instance  succeeded  :  that  his  not  always 'been  possible.  The 
public  has  judged  him  by  his  best  work,  and  the  result  is  shown 
by  the  position  to  which  he  has  attained. 

In,  estimating,  in  their  literary  aspect,  Mr.  Graves's  services 
to  Irish  music,  it  must  here  suffice  to  say  that  in  the  opinion 
of  competent  critics  he  has  done  more  than  any  of  Moore's 
successors  to  '  unbind  the  island  harp ; '  and  in  his  own 
sphere  he  is  even  more  distinctly  Irish  than  many  of  them. 
Mr.  Graves  knows  and  understands  the  peasantry  of  Ireland 
as  but  few  writers  of  high  merit  and  culture  have  known  and 
understood  them  ;  and  he  has  given  us  in  his  popular  songs 
and  ballads  a  gallery  of  pictures  in  which  the  genial,  passionate, 
lovable,  and  withal  somewhat  inconsequent  Irish  countryman 
is  depicted  merry-making,  love-making,  cutting  capers,  joking, 
lamenting,  telling  stories  of  the  'good  people,'  getting  married, 
and  dying,  against  backgrounds  of  Irish  hills  and  lakes,  rivers, 
and  woods.  And  the  great  sea  is  there  too,  and  the  memory 
of  those  who  have  passed  over  it. 

It  is  by  such  work  as  this  that  Mr.  Graves's  reputation  is 
most  likely  to  endure.  Nevertheless  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten 
that  much  of  it  could  not  have  been  so  well  and  daintily  done 
had  he  not  been  a  man  of  general  culture,  having  a  special 
devotion  for  the  study  of  Irish  character  and  of  ancient  Irish 
literature.  He  does  not  indeed  (as  his  poetry  testifies)  hold 
that  Irishmen  should  write  only  on  Irish  subjects  and  in 
what  is  called  a  Celtic  manner  ;  that  certain  forms  of  verse 
are  un-Irish  ;  and  that  the  only  high  literary  field  for  Celtic 
activity  lies  in  the  ancient  mythology  and  in  the  heroic  ages 
of  the  Celtic  peoples.  He  cannot  but  be  well  aware  that 
a  literature  bound  (as  none  worthy  of  the  name  ever  has 
been  bound)  by  limitations  so  narrow  and  restrictions  so 
arbitrary  and  paralysing  would  be  destined  only  to  a  lingering 
inefficiency  and  a  not  distant  extinction.  But  he  fully  re- 
cognises that  there  are  periods  in  the  development  of  every 


384  BOOK   V 

literature  during  which  its  national  characteristics  must  be 
maintained  by  having  recourse  to  the  original  fountains,  to  the 
national  epos  and  to  the  local  folklore  so  closely  connected 
therewith.  Therefore  he  has  entered  sympathetically  into  the 
movement  known  as  the  Celtic  renascence,  and  while  main- 
taining in  those  of  his  poems  which  are  not  written  in  dialect 
the  purity  of  that  English  tongue  in  which  of  necessity  the 
Celtic  movement  must  mainly  find  expression  to-day,  he  has 
given  proof,  in  'The  Fairy  Branch'  and  other  pieces  from  the 
Gaelic,  of  his  devotion  to  the  study  of  that  ancient  literature  the 
importance  of  which  has  of  recent  years  come  to  be  widely 
acknowledged.  In  the  domain  of  folklore  *  The  Fairy  Pig  '  is 
a  good  instance  of  his  treatment  of  those  popular  tales,  once  so 
much  despised  and  neglected,  in  which  the  gods  of  De  Danaan 
legend,  in  their  ancient  greatness  so  far  removed  from  the 
peasant's  ken,  have  become  the  little  dwellers  in  rath  and  lis, 
the 'good people'  who  play  so  real  a  part  in  the  popular  imagina- 
tion. 

Much  of  Mr.  Graves's  verse  does  not  come  under  any  of 
the  categories  already  mentioned.  In  '  The  Beautiful  Bay,'  for 
instance,  he  has  given  us  an  exquisite  descriptive  poem — no 
more  Irish,  in  the  perverse  limited  sense  of  the  word,  than  is 
the  echo-song  in  Tennyson's  '  Princess,'  which  also  owes  its 
inspiration  to  the  scenery  of  the  County  Kerry.  Many  other 
fine  pieces  of  verse  bear  witness  to  his  powers  in  wider  fields  ; 
yet  it  is  doubtful  whether  his  output  in  work  of  this  kind 
would  have  entitled  him  to  a  higher  position  than  has  been 
attained  by  many  a  '  minor '  English  poet  of  the  day.  His 
reputation,  not  only  among  Irishmen,  but  among  all  who  speak 
the  English  tongue,  must  finally  rest  upon  those  of  his  poems 
which  treat  of  Irish  subjects,  and  especially  upon  the  songs  and 
ballads  in  dialect — full,  as  many  of  them  are,  not  only  of  quiet 
humour  or  of  rollicking  mirth,  but  also  of  an  unobtrusive,  yet 
deep  and  tender  pathos. 

GEORGE  A.  GREENE. 

Born  in  Dublin,  July  22,  1846,  the  son  of  the  Right  Rev.  Charles  Graves, 
D.D.,  Bishop  of  Limerick,  Alfred  Perceval  Graves  belongs  to  a  distinguished 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  385 


literary  family.  He  went  to  a  school  in  the  English  Lake  country,  but  spent 
a  good  deal  of  his  youth  in  the  South-West  of  Ireland,  amid  the  scenery 
which  forms  the  background  for  the  best-known  and  most  successful  of  his 
lyrics.  Proceeding  to  the  University  of  Dublin,  he  took  his  degree  in  1871 
after  a  distinguished  academical  career  (during  which  he  obtained  a 
classical  scholarship  and  Double  First  honours  in  classics  and  English 
literature  and  history),  and  became  a  contributor  to  Kottabos  and 
other  periodicals.  He  was  for  some  time  in  the  Home  Office,  and  became 
private'  secretary  to  one  of  the  chiefs  in  that  department,  but  was 
subsequently  appointed  one  of  her  Majesty's  Inspectors  of  Schools,  and 
now  holds  that  position  in  the  London  district.  His  first  volume,  SONGS 
OF  KILLARNEY,  appeared  in  1873,  and  was  followed  by  InsH  SONGS 
AND  BALLADS,  1880,  which  has  passed  through  several  editions,  and  by 
FATHER  O'FLYNN  AND  OTHER  IRISH  LYRICS  (largely  a  reprint)  in  1889. 
The  following  were  published  in  conjunction  with  the  musical  accompani- 
ments :  SONGS  OF  OLD  IRELAND  (music  arranged  by  Professor  C.  Villiers 
Stanford),  Boosey&Co.,  1883  ;  IRISH  SONGS  AND  BALLADS  ( safe  w),  Novel  lo, 
Ewer,  &  Co.,  1893  ;  IRISH  FOLK  SONGS  (the  airs  arranged  by  Mr.  Charles 
Wood),  Boosey  &  Co.,  1897.  Other  lyrics  of  his  written  to  music  may 
be  found  in  MANX  NATIONAL  SONGS,  Boosey  &  Co.,  1896.  Mr.  Graves 
is  the  editor  of  SONGS  OF  IRISH  WIT  AND  HUMOUR,  1884;  of  THE 
PURCELL  PAPERS,  by  J.  S.  Le  Fanu,  three  volumes,  1880;  and  of  THE 
IRISH  SONG  BOOK,  Fisher  Unwin,  1894,  now  in  its  fourth  edition  ;  and 
as  a  lecturer  on  Irish  literature  and  music  and  honorary  secretary  of 
the  Irish  Literary  Society  has  taken  his  share  in  the  Irish  literary  and 
musical  renascence  of  the  day. 


From  THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  Cows 

So  he  trassed  away  dreamin'  of  Nora  na  Mo, 
While  the  mist  it  crept  down  to  the  valleys  below 
Unknownst  to  O'Neale,  for  each  inch  of  the  way 
He'd  have  travelled  as  surely  by  night  as  by  day. 
Still  an'  all  at  long  last  on  the  edge  of  a  bog 
There  puffed  in  his  face  such  a  powderin'  fog 
That  he  gave  a  great  start  and  looked  doubtin'ly  down, 
To  be  sure  he'd  made  off  the  right  track  to  the  town  ; 
And  he  just  then  could  see  to  the  left  of  his  path, 
Roundin'  out  of  the  vapour,  the  ould  Irish  rath, 
And  says  he  wid  a  smile  :  '  Why,  I  might  be  a  hound 
For  facin'  so  fair  for  the  Barony's  bound. 

cc 


386  BOOK   V 


But  I'd  best  hurry  on,  then,  or — Mother  Machree  ! — 

It's  in  dread  for  me  out  in  the  mist  but  you'll  be.' 

So  he  started  to  run,  when  he  heard  from  above 

The  voice  of  the  girl  that  had  stolen  his  love  : 

'  Magrina,  magrina,  magrinashin  oge  ! 

Come  hither,  my  Laidir  ;  come.  Kitty,  you  rogue ; 

Come  up,  Blackbird',  come,  Snow,  to  the  beautiful  house? 

4  Tis  the  Colleen  na  Mo,'  he  said,  '  callin'  her  cows.' 

But  her  voice  sounded  sadly  and  strange  in  his  ear, 

And  the  heart  of  O'Neale  began  knockin'  for  fear, 

And  he  looked  and  he  saw,  risin'  up  from  below, 

The  Shadow  of  the  Shape  of  the  Colleen  na  Mo, 

Growin'  greater  for  ever,  till  a  monster  of  black, 

Like  the  Spirit  of  Death,  it  stood  out  of  the  track  ; 

And  O'Neale  knew  the  warnin' — and  shouted,  '  Stand  back, 

Stand  back  for  your  life  T      But  the  Shadow  went  still, 

Wid  its  arms  wavtn'  wild  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  ; 

Then  it  trembled,  and  balanced,  and  staggered,  and  fell, 

Down,  down  vvid  the  moan  of  a  muffled  death-bell. 


'  Come,  Jack,  we'll  go  down  to  the  foot  of  the  rock, 
And  protect  the  poor  corpse  from  the  ravenous  flock  ; ' 
And  he  coaxed  him  to  come,  but  the  dog  wouldn't  stir, 
So  alone  down  the  clift  Pat  went  searchin'  for  her. 

But  as  he  was  goin',  a  far  hullahoo 

Rose  out  of  the  distance,  and  into  his  view 

Red  torches  came  wavin'  their  way  up  the  hill, 

And  he  laughed  a  wild  laugh,  through  his  wanderin'  will, 

And  he  cried  :  '/$•  /'/  wake-lights yez  are  drawiri  near? 

Hurry  up,  then,  and  show  me  the  corpse  of  my  dear? 

And  the  red  lights  approached,  and  a  voice  wid  the  light : 

'  Who  are  ye  in  distress  on  the  mountain  to-night?' 

And  he  answered  :  '  Come  up,  for  our  name  it  is  Death 

Wid  the  eagle  above  and  the  white-worm  beneath  ; 
But  the  death-lights  that  hover  by  night  o'er  the  grave 

Will  restore  us  our  dead  when  your  torches  can  save? 


ALFRED   PERCEVAL   GRAVES  387 

4  What  is  it,  O'Neale,  man  ?     How  wildly  you  rave  ! ' 
And  the  hand  of  Murt  Shea,  the  best  friend  that  he  had, 
\Vas  lovingly  laid  on  the  arm  of  the  lad. 

*  Oh,  Murt,  give  me  hould  of  that  splinter,'  he  said, 

*  And  let  me  look  down  on  the  face  of  the  dead  ; 
For  Nora  Maguire,  Murt,  my  own  secret  love, 
Has  fallen  from  the  clift  of  Coomassig  above.' 

'  Is  it  she,  wirra  !  wirra  !  the  pride  of  us  all  ? 

Do  you  say  that  the  darlin's  been  killed  by  a  fall  ? 

Ologone,  my  poor  Pat,  and  you  loved  her  at  heart.' 

Then  O'Neale  groaned  again  :  *  Sure,  I've  searched  every  part 
And  no  sign  of  her  here  at  the  foot  of  the  clift.' 
And  the  rest  they  come  up,  and  the  bushes  they  sift, 
But  sorra  a  trace  to  the  right  or  the  left. 

Then  O'Neale  shouted  :  *  Come,  every  man  of  ye  lift 
His  fire  altogether.'     And  one  said  :  '  I  see 
Somethin'  hangin'  high  up  from  the  juniper-tree.' 
"Tis  herself! '  shouted  Pat,  wid  his  hand  to  his  brow. 
'  How  far  from  the  top  is  that  juniper  bough  ?' 
4  Ten  foot  of  a  fall,'  said  a  mountain  gossoon. 
'Wid  no  tussocks  betune  them  ?' 

*  Wid  nothin'  betune. 

*  Have  yez  e'er  a  rope  handy,  boys  ? ' 

4  Divle  a  rope  ! 
And  not  nearer  nor  Sneem  for  the  likes  you  could  hope. 

*  Come  hither,  gossoon,  and  be  off  wid  this  splinter, 
For  'tis  you  know  the  mountain ;  away  widout  hinder 
To  the  nearest  good  haggard,  and  strip  the  sugane, 
Not  forgettin'  a  sop  of  the  finest  finane. 

Brustig,  brustig,  alanah  ! '  and  hardly  the  rest 

Had  followed  O'Neale  up  the  vapoury  crest 

To  the  spot  that  the  faithful,  wise  hound  wouldn't  pass, 

When  the  boy  he  was  back  wid  the  hayropes  and  grass. 

Then  says  Pat,  leanin'  down  wid  a  splinter  of  light  : 

*  God  bless  the  good  dog  ! — after  all  he  was  right. 
Ten  foot  underneath  us — she's  plainly  in  sight. 

Now  give  hither  the  ropes,  and  hould  on  while  I  twist.' 
So  he  caught  the  suganes  up  like  threads  in  his  fist, 

c  c  2 


388  BOOK    V 


And  twined  them  and  jined  them  a  thirty-foot  length, 

Fourplait  to  a  thickness  of  terrible  strength  ; 

Then  roped  it  around  the  two  biggest  boys  there, 

To  see  was  it  fit  for  supportin'  a  pair. 

And  he  easily  lifted  the  two  through  the  air, 

Up  and  down,  till  he'd  proved  it  well  able  to  bear. 

'  Now  make  the  rope  fast  to  me,  boys,  while  I  go 

Down  the  side  of  the  clift  for  the  Colleen  na  Mo. 

Livin'  or  dead — tho'  I'm  hopeful  for  all, 

There's  life  in  her  still— tho'  she's  kilt  from  the  fall.' 

Then  he  turns  to  one  side,  and  he  whispers  Murt  Shea : 

*  If  I'm  killed  from  the  clift  of  Coomassig  to-day, 

Come  promise  me  faithful  you'll  stand  to  the  mother 

Like  a  son,  till  she's  help  from  the  sister  and  brother. 

And  give  her  this  kiss,  and  I'll  meet  her  again 

In  the  place  where's  no  poverty,  sorrow,  or  pain.' 

And  he  promised— and  all  then  shook  hands  wid  O'Neale, 

And  he  cheered  them  and  said  :  *  Have  no  dread  that  we'll  Jail, 

For  I'd  not  be  afear'd — why,  to  balance  the  Pope 

Himself  from  the  clift  by  so  hearty  a  rope. 

So  a  torch  in  his  hand  and  a  stick  in  his  teeth, 

And  his  coat  round  his  throat,  the  boys  lowered  him  beneath. 

And  all  but  Murt  Shea,  then,  they  couldn't  make  out 

The  coat  round  his  throat  and  the  stick  in  his  mout'. 

But  it  wasn't  for  long  they'd  the  doubt  in  their  mind, 

For  they  saw  his  torch  quenched  wid  a  noise  like  the  wind, 

And  'Steady  above  !'  came  his  voice  from  below. 

Then  heavy  wings  flapped  wid  a  scream  and  a  blow. 

"Tis  the  eagles,'  they  cried,  'at  the  Colleen  na  Mo.' 

But  an  old  man  amongst  them  spoke  up  and  he  said  : 

"Tis  the  eagles,  for  sartin — but  not  at  the  dead  ; 

For  they'll  not  touch  the  corpse.     Murther  !  but  for  the  mist, 

'Tis  I  could  have  told  you  that  this  was  their  nest. 

It's  O'Neale  that  they're  at— pull  him  back,  or  they'll  tear 

The  poor  boy  to  pieces  below  in  the  air  ; ' 

And  they  shouted  together  the  eagles  to  scare. 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  389 

And  they  called  to  O'Neale  from  the  edge  of  the  height : 

'  She's  dead,  Pat — she's  dead  ;  never  mind  her  to-night, 

But  come  back,  or  the  eagles'll  pick  out  your  sight.' 

And  they  made  for  to  pull  ;  but  he  cries,  '  If  you  do, 

I  give  you  my  oath  that  I'll  cut  the  rope  through.' 

And  they  b'lieved  him,  and  waited  wid  hearts  beatin'  loud, 

Screechin'  down  at  the  birds  through  the  vapoury  cloud, 

Showerin'  splinters  for  ever  to  give  the  boy  light, 

And  warnin'  him  watch  to  the  left  or  the  right, 

As  each  eagle  in  turn  it  would  fly  at  his  head, 

Till  he  dropped  one  below  in  the  darkness  for  dead, 

And  the  other  flew  off  wid  a  yell  through  the  night. 

Then  they  felt  the  rope  slacken  as  he  crossed  to  the  bough, 

Then  tighten  again — and  he  called  to  them  '  Now  ! ' 

And  they  knew  that  the  dangerous  moment  was  come ; 

So  wid  wrist  draggin'  shoulder,  tight  finger  to  thumb, 

And  tooth  crushing  tooth  in  the  silence  of  death, 

They  drew  up  the  two  from  the  blackness  beneath. 

THE  LIMERICK  LASSES 

'  HAVE  you  e'er  a  new  song, 

My  Limerick  Poet, 
To  help  us  along 

Wid  this  terrible  boat 
Away  over  to  Tork  ? ' 
Arrah  !  I  understand 
For  all  of  your  work 

'Twill  tighten  you,  boys, 
To  cargo  that  sand 
To  the  overside  strand 

Wid  the  current  so  strong, 
Unless  you've  a  song — 
A  song  to  lighten  and  brighten  you,  boys. 
Be  listenin'  then, 
My  brave  Kerry  men, 
And  the  new  song, 
And  the  true  song 
Of  the  Limerick  lasses  'tis  I  will  begin. 


390  BOOK   V 


O  Limerick  dear, 
It's  far  and  it's  near 

I've  travelled  the  round  of  this  circular  sphere ; 
Still  an'  all  to  my  mind 
No  colleens  you'll  find 
As  lovely  and  modest,  as  merry  and  kind, 
As  our  Limerick  lasses  ; 
Our  Limerick  lasses — 
So  lovely  and  modest,  so  merry  and  kind. 

So  row, 

Strong  and  slow, 
Chorusing  after  me  as  we  go  : — 

Still  an'  all  to  my  mind 

No  colleens  you'll  find 
As  lovely  and  modest,  as  merry  and  kind, 

As  our  Limerick  lasses  ; 

Our  Limerick  lasses  — 
So  lovely  and  modest,  so  merry  and  kind. 

O  your  English  colleen 
Has  the  wonderful  mien 

Of  a  goddess  in  marble,  all  grand  and  serene  ; 
And,  though  slow  to  unbend, 
Win  her  once  for  your  friend, 
And — no  alter  or  falter— she's  yours  to  the  end. 
But  oh  !  row, 
Strong  and  slow, 
Chorusing  after  me  as  we  go  : — 
Still  an'  all  to  my  mind 
No  colleens  you'll  find 
As  lovely  and  modest,  as  merry  and  kind, 
As  our  Limerick  lasses  ; 
Our  Limerick  lasses — 
So  lovely  and  modest,  so  merry  and  kind. 

Of  the  French  demoiselle 
Delighted  I'll  tell, 
For  her  sparkle  and  grace  suit  us  Irishmen  well; 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES  391 

And  taken  complete, 
From  her  head  to  her  feet, 
She's  the  perfectest  picture  of  polish  you'll  meet 
But  oh  !  row, 
Strong  and  slow, 
Chorusing  after  me  as  we  go  : — 
Still  an'  all  to  my  mind 
No  colleens  you'll  find 
As  lovely  and  modest,  as  merry  and  kind, 
As  our  Limerick  lasses  ; 
Our  Limerick  lasses — 
So  lovely  and  modest,  so  merry  and  kind. 

O  Donna  of  Spain, 
It's  the  darlingest  pain 

From  your  dark  eyes  I've  suffered  again  and  again, 
When  you'd  gracefully  glide 
Like  a  swan  at  my  side, 

Or  sing  till  with  rapture  the  woodbird  replied. 
But  oh  !  row, 
Strong  and  slow, 
Chorusing  after  me  as  we  go  : — 
Still  an'  all  to  my  mind 
No  colleens  you'll  find 
As  lovely  and  modest,  as  merry  and  kind, 
As  our  Limerick  lasses  ; 
Our  Limerick  lasses — 
So  lovely  and  modest,  so  merry  and  kind. 


Now,  my  Maryland  girl, 
With  your  sunshiny  curl, 

Your  sweet  spirit  eyes,  and  complexion  of  pearl ; 
And  the  goodness  and  grace 
That  illumine  your  face, 

You're  the  purtiest  approach  to  my  Limerick  lass. 
For  oh  !  row, 
Strong  and  slow, 
Chorusing  after  me  as  we  go  : — 


392  BOOK   V 


Still  an'  all  to  my  mind 

No  maiden  you'll  find 
As  lovely  and  modest,  as  merry  and  kind, 

As  our  Limerick  lasses  ; 

Our  Limerick  lasses — 
So  lovely  and  modest,  and  merry  and  kind. 

THE  IRISH  SPINNING-WHEEL 

SHOW  me  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it. 

Oh  no  ! 

Nothing  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Look  at  her  there  — 

Night  in  her  hair, 
The  blue  ray  of  day  from  her  eye  laughin'  out  on  us  ! 

Faix,  an'  a  foot, 

Perfect  of  cut, 
Peepin'  to  put  an  end  to  all  doubt  in  us 

That  there's  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it — 

Oh  no  ! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

See  !  the  lamb's  wool 

Turns  coarse  an'  dull 
By  them  soft,  beautiful  weeshy  white  hands  of  her. 

Down  goes  her  heel, 

Roun'  runs  the  wheel, 
Purrin'  wid  pleasure  to  take  the  commands  of  her. 

Then  show  me  a  sight 
Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it. 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  393 

Oh  no  ! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  isittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Talk  of  Three  Fates, 

Seated  on  sates, 
Spinnin'  and  shearin'  away  till  they've  done  for  me  ! 

You  may  want  three 

For  your  massacree, 
But  one  Fate  for  me,  boys  -  and  only  the  one  for  me  ! 

And  isn't  that  fate 

Pictured  complate — 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  with  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it  ? 

Oh  no! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

IRISH  LULLABY 

I'D  rock  my  own  sweet  childie  to  rest  in  a  cradle  of  gold  on  a  bough 

of  the  willow, 

To  the  shoheen  ho  of  the  wind  of  the  west  and  the  lullalo  of  the 
soft  sea  billow. 

Sleep,  baby  dear, 
Sleep  without  fear, 
Mother  is  here  at  your  pillow. 

I'd  put  my  own  sweet  childie  to   sleep  in  a  silver  boat  on  the 

beautiful  river, 

Where  a  shoheen  whisper  the  white  cascades,  and  a  lullalo  the 
green  flags  shiver. 

Sleep,  baby  dear, 
Sleep  without  fear, 
Mother  is  here  with  you  for  ever. 

Shoheen^  ho  !  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  mother's  bosom  'tis  sleep  has 

bound  you, 

And,  O  my  child,  what  cosier  nest  for  rosier  rest  could  love  have 
found  you  ? 

Sleep,  baby  dear, 
Sleep  without  fear, 
Mother's  two  arms  are  clasped  around  you. 


394  BOOK   V 


FATHER  O'FLYNN 

OF  priests  we  can  offer  a  charmin'  variety, 
Far  renowned  for  larnin'  and  piety  ; 
Still,  I'd  advance  ye  widout  impropriety, 

Father  O'Flynn  as  the  flower  of  them  all. 

CHORUS 

Here's  a  health  to  you,  Father  O'Flynn, 
Sldinte,  and  sldinte,  and  sldinte  agin  ; 

Powerfulest  preacher,  and 

Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 

Don't  talk  of  your  Provost  and  Fellows  of  Trinity, 
Famous  for  ever  at 'Greek  and  Latinity, 
Faix  !    and  the  divels  and  all  at  Divinity — 

Father  O'Flynn  'd  make  hares  of  them  all ! 
Come,  I  vinture  to  give  ye  my  word, 
Niver  the  likes  of  his  logic  was  heard, 
Down  from  mythology 
Into  thayology, 
Troth  !  and  conchology  if  he'd  the  call. 

CHORUS 

Here's  a  health  to  you  Father  O'Flynn, 
Sldinte  and  sldinte,  and  sldinte  agin  ; 
Powerfulest  preacher,  and 
Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 

Och  !  Father  O'Flynn,  you've  the  wonderful  way  wid  you, 
All  ould  sinners  are  wishful  to  pray  wid  you, 
All  the  young  childer  are  wild  for  to  play  wid  you, 
You've  such  a  way  wid  you,  Father  avick  ! 
Still,  for  all  you've  so  gentle  a  soul, 
Gad,  you've  your  flock  in  the  grandest  control, 
Checking  the  crazy  ones, 
Coaxin'  onaisy  ones, 
Liftin'  the  lazy  ones  on  wid  the  stick. 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  395 


CHORUS 

Here's  a  health  to  you,  Father  O'Flynn, 
Sldinte^  and  sldinte,  and  sldinte  agin  ; 

Powerfulest  preacher,  and 

Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 

And  though  quite  avoidin'  all  foolish  frivolity 
Still,  at  all  seasons  of  innocent  jollity, 
Where  was  the  play-boy  could  claim  an  equality 
At  comicality,  Father,  wid  you  ? 

Once  the  Bishop  looked  grave  at  your  jest, 
Till  this  remark  set  him  off  wid  the  rest : 
4  Is  it  lave  gaiety 
All  to  the  laity  ? 
Cannot  the  clargy  be  Irishmen  too?' 

CHORUS 

Here's  a  health  to  you,  Father  O'Flynn, 
Sldinte,  and  sldinte,  and  sldinte  agin  ; 

Powerfulest  preacher,  and 

Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 


FAN  FITZGERL 

WIRRA,  wirra  !  ologone  ! 

Can't  ye  lave  a  lad  alone, 
Till  he's  proved  there's  no  tradition  left  of  any  other  girl — 

Not  even  Trojan  Helen 

In  beauty  all  excellin' — 
Who's  been  up  to  half  the  divlement  of  Fan  Fitzgerl  ? 

Wid  her  brows  of  silky  black 

Arched  above  for  the  attack, 
Her  eyes  they  dart  such  azure  death  on  poor  admirin'  man  ; 

Masther  Cupid,  point  your  arrows, 

From  this  out,  agin  the  sparrows, 
For  you're  bested  at  Love's  archery  by  young  Miss  Fan. 


396  BOOK    V 


See  what  showers  of  goolden  thread 

Lift  and  fall  upon  her  head, 
The  likes  of  such  a  trammel-net  at  say  was  niver  spread  ; 

For  whin  accurately  reckoned, 

'Twas  computed  that  each  second 
Of  her  curls  has  cot  a  Kerryman  and  kilt  him  dead. 

Now  mintion,  if  ye  will, 

Brandon  Mount  and  Hungry  Hill, 
Or  Ma'g'llicuddy's  Reeks  renowned  for  cripplin'  all  they  can  ; 

Still  the  countryside  confisses 

None  of  all  its  precipices 
Cause  a  quarter  of  the  carnage  of  the  nose  of  Fan. 

But  your  shatthered  hearts  suppose 

Safely  steered  apast  her  nose, 
She's  a  current  and  a  reef  beyant  to  wreck  them  rovin'  ships. 

My  maning  it  is  simple, 

For  that  current  is  her  dimple, 
And  the  cruel  reef 'twill  coax  ye  to  's  her  coral  lips. 

I  might  inform  ye  further 

Of  her  bosom's  snowy  murther, 
And  an  ankle  ambuscadin'  through  her  gown's  delightful  whirl  ; 

But  what  need,  when  all  the  village 

Has  forsook  its  peaceful  tillage 
And  flown  to  war  and  pillage  all  for  Fan  Fitzgerl  ? 

HERRING  is  KING 

LET  all  the  fish  that  swim  the  sea, 

Salmon  and  turbot,  cod  and  ling, 
Bow  down  the  head  and  bend  the  knee 
To  herring,  their  king  !— to  herring,  their  king  ! 
Sing,  Thugamarfein  an  samhradh  linn, 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in.1 

The  sun  sank  down,  so  round  and  red, 
Upon  the  bay,  upon  the  bay  ; 


1  The  second  line  of  the  refrain  translates  the  first,  which  is  pronounced 
Hugamar  fain  an  soivra  linn. 


ALFRED  PERCEVAL   GRAVES  397 


The  sails  shook  idly  overhead — 
Becalmed  we  lay,  becalmed  we  lay. 
Sing,  Thugamar  f tin  an  samhradh  linn, 
Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 

Till  Shawn  the  eagle  dropped  on  deck, 

The  bright-eyed  boy,  the  bright-eyed  boy ; 
'Tis  he  has  spied  your  silver  track, 
Herring,  our  joy — herring,  our  joy. 

Sing,  Thugainar  fe"in  an  samhradh  linn, 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 

It  was  in  with  the  sails  and  away  to  shore, 

With  the  rise  and  swing,  the  rise  and  swing 
Of  two  stout  lads  at  each  smoking  oar, 
After  herring,  our  king — herring,  our  king. 
Sing,  Thugamar  fein  an  samhradh  linn, 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 

The  Manx  and  the  Cornish  raised  the  shout, 
And  joined  the  chase,  and  joined  the  chase, 
But  their  fleets  they  fouled  as  they  went  about, 
And  we  won  the  race,  we  won  the  race. 
Sing,  Thugamar  fein  an  samhradh  linn, 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 

For  we  turned  and  faced  you  full  to  land, 

Down  the  goleen  long,  the  goleen  !  long, 
And  after  you  slipped  from  strand  to  strand 
Our  nets  so  strong,  our  nets  so  strong. 
Sing,  Thugamar  fein  an  samhradh  linn, 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 

Then  we  called  to  our  sweethearts  and  our  wives, 
*  Come,  welcome  us  home—welcome  us  home,' 
Till  they  ran  to  meet  us  for  their  lives 
Into  the  foam,  into  the  foam. 
Sing,  Thugamar  f^in  an  samhradh  linn, 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 

1  Creek. 


398  BOOK   V 


Oh,  the  kissing  of  hands  and  waving  of  caps 
From  girl  and  boy,  from  girl  and  boy, 

While  you  leapt  by  scores  in  the  lasses'  laps, 
Herring,  our  joy — herring,  our  joy. 
Sing,  Thugamar  fein  an  samhradh 
'Tis  we  have  brought  the  summer  in. 


FRANCIS   A.  FAHY 

BORN  at  Kinvara,  County  Galway,  1854,  and  entered  the  Civil 
Service  in  London  (Board  of  Trade  Department)  1873.  Mr. 
Fahy  has  taken  an  active  part  in  various  Irish  literary  move- 
ments in  London,  especially  in  the  formation  of  the  Southwark 
Irish  Literary  Club  and  the  Irish  Literary  Society  which  grew 
out  of  it.  He  wrote  a  play,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  O'LEARYS,  at 
the  age  of  sixteen,  which  was  performed  in  his  native  town. 
He  has  contributed  verses  marked  by  much  humour  and  grace 
to  many  Irish  periodicals.  His  songs,  of  which  a  large 
number  are  well-known  favourites  in  concert-rooms,  have  the 
merit  of  being  eminently  singable.  His  volume  of  IRISH  SONGS 
AND  POEMS  appeared  in  1887, 

THE  DONOVANS 

IF  you  would  like  to  see  the  height  of  hospitality, 
The  cream  of  kindly  welcome,  and  the  core  of  cordiality  : 
Joys  of  all  the  olden  time  -  you're  wishing  to  recall  again  ? 
Come  down  to  Donovans,  and  there  you'll  meet  them  all  again. 

Cead  mile  fdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans, 

As  cheery  as  the  springtime  and  Irish  as  the  cannawaun? 

The  wish  of  my  heart  is,  if  ever  I  had  any  one  — 

That  every  luck  that  lightens  life  may  light  upon  the  Donovans. 

As  soon  as  e'er  you  lift  the  latch,  the  little  ones  are  meeting  you  ; 
Soon  as  you're  beneath  the  thatch,  oh  !  kindly  looks  are  greeting 
you; 

1  Bog-cotton. 


FRANCIS  A.   FAHY  399 


Scarcely  are  you  ready  to  be  holding  out  the  fist  to  them, 
When  down  by  the  fireside  you're  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Ctad  mile  fdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans,  &c. 

There  sits  the  cailin  deas l — oh  !  where  on  earth's  the  peer  of  her  ? 
The  modest  face,  the  gentle  grace,  the  humour  and  the  cheer  of 

her— 

Eyes  like  the  summer  skies  when  twin  stars  beam  above  in  them, 
Oh  !  proud  will  be  the  boy  That's  to  light  the  lamp  of  love  in  them. 
Ctad  mile  fdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans,  &c. 

Then  when  you  rise  to  go,  it's  '  Ah,  then,  now  sit  down  again  ! ' 
'Isn't  it  the  haste  you're  in?'  and  '  Won't  you  soon  come  round 

again  ? ' 

Your  catibeen  and  your  overcoat  you'd  better  put  astray  from  them, 
'Twill  take  you  all  your  time  to  try  and  tear  yourself  away  from  them, 
Ctad  mile  fdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans,  &c. 

IRISH  MOLLY  O 

OH  !  fairer  than  the  lily  tall,  and  sweeter  than  the  rose, 

As  modest  as  the  violet  in  dewy  dell  that  blows  ; 

With  heart  as  warm  as  summer  noon,  and  pure  as  winter  snow— 

The  pride  of  Erin's  isle  is  she,  dear  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

No  linnet  of  the  hazel  grove  than  she  more  sweetly  sang, 
No  sorrow  could  be  resting  where  her  guileless  laughter  rang, 
No  hall  of  light  could  half  so  bright  as  that  poor  cabin  glow 
Where  shone  the  face  of  love  and  grace  of  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

But  fever's  breath  struck  down  in  death  her  father  strong   and 

brave, 

And  who  should  now  his  little  ones  from  want  and  sorrow  save  ? 
4  Oh,  never  fear,  my  mother  dear,  across  the  seas  I'll  go, 
And  win  for  ye  a  new  home  there,'  said  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

And  far  away  'mid  strangers  cold  she  toiled  for  many  a  year, 
And  no  one  heard  the  heart-wrung  sigh  or  saw  the  silent  tear, 
But  letters  fond  the  seas  beyond  would  kind  and  constant  go, 
W7ith  gold  won  dear,  and  words  of  cheer,  from  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

1  Pretty  girl. 


400  BOOK    V 


And  one  by  one  she  sent  for  all  the  loved  ones  o'er  the  foam, 
And  one  by  one  she  welcomed  them  to  her  fond  heart  and  home, 
And  last  and  best  her  arms  caressed  the  aged  head  of  snow — 
'  Oh,  mother,  we'll  be  happy  now  ! '  said  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

Alas  !  long  years  of  toil  and  tears  had  chilled  her  young  heart's 

glow, 
And  grief  and  care  had  blanched  her  hair  and  stilled  her  pulse's 

flow, 

And  when  the  spring  bade  wild  birds  sing  and  buds  in  beauty  blow — 
They  made  your  grave  where  willows  wave,  poor  Irish  Molly  O  ! 


THE  OULD  PLAID  SHAWL 

NOT  far  from  old  Kinvara,  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 
When  birds  were  singing  cheerily,  there  came  across  my  way, 
As  if  from  out  the  sky  above  an  angel  chanced  to  fall, 
A  little  Irish  cailin  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl. 

She  tripped  along  right  joyously,  a  basket  on  her  arm  ; 

And,  oh  !  her  face,  and,  oh  !  her  grace,  the  soul  of  saint  would 

charm  ; 

Her  brown  hair  rippled  o'er  her  brow,  but  greatest  charm  of  all 
Was  her  modest  blue  eyes  beaming  'neath  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 

I  courteously  saluted  her — '  God  save  you,  miss,'  says  I  ; 
'  God  save  you,  kindly  sir,'  said  she,  and  shyly  passed  me  by  ; 
Off  went  my  heart  along  with  her,  a  captive  in  her  thrall, 
Imprisoned  in  the  corner  of  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 

Enchanted  with  her  beauty  rare,  I  gazed  in  pure  delight, 
Till  round  an  angle  of  the  road  she  vanished  from  my  sight  ; 
But  ever  since  I  sighing  say,  as  I  that  scene  recall, 
*  The  grace  of  God  about  you  and  your  ould  plaid  shawl.' 

I've  heard  of  highway  robbers  that,  with  pistols  and  with  knives, 
Make  trembling  travellers  yield  them  up  their  money  or  their 

lives, 

But  think  of  me  that  handed  out  my  heart  and  head  and  all 
To  a  simple  little  cailin  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl  ! 


FRANCIS  A.   FAHY  401 

Oh  !  graceful  the  mantillas  that  the  signorinas  wear, 
And  tasteful  are  the  bonnets  of  Parisian  ladies  fair, 
But  never  cloak  or  hood  or  robe,  in  palace,  bow'r,  or  hall, 
Clad  half  such  witching  beauty  as  that  ould  plaid  shawl. 

Oh  !  some  men  sigh  for  riches,  and  some  men  live  for  fame, 
And  some  on  history's  pages  hope  to  win  a  glorious  name  ; 
My  aims  are  not  ambitious,  and  my  wishes  are  but  small — 
You  might  wrap  them  all  together  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl. 

I'll  seek  her  all  through  Galway,  and  I'll  seek  her  all  through 

Clare, 

I'll  search  for  tale  or  tidings  of  my  traveller  everywhere, 
For  peace  of  mind  I'll  never  find  until  my  own  I  call 
That  little  Irish  cailin  in  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 


MALACHY   RYAN 

A  SCHOOLMASTER  in  County  Carlow.  He  subsequently 
became  librarian  in  the  Record  Office,  Dublin.  He  published 
a  volume  of  poems— ELSIE  LEE,  THE  WHITETHORN  TREE, 
AND  OTHER  POEMS— in  1872. 

ROSE  ADAIR 

'TWAS  in  green-leafy  springtime, 
When  the  birds  on  every  tree 
Were  breakin'  all  their  little  hearts 

In  a  merry  melody  ; 
An'  the  young  buds  hung  like  tassels 
An'  the  flowers  grew  everywhere — 
'Twas  in  green-leafy  springtime 
I  met  sweet  Rose  Adair. 
O  Rose  Adair  !  O  Rose  Adair  ! 

You  are  the  radiant  sun, 
The  blossomed  trees,  an'  scented  breeze, 
An'  song-birds  all  in  one. 

D  D 


402  BOOK    V 


I  met  her  sowin'  mushrooms 

With  her  white  feet  in  the  grass  ; 
Twas  eve — but  mornin'  in  the  smile 

Of  my  sweet  cailin  deas ; 
An'  I  kissed  her — oh,  so  secretly 

That  not  a  one  should  know — 
But  the  roguish  stars  they  winked  above 

An'  the  daisies  smiled  below. 

The  Father  in  confession,  Rose, 

Won't  count  that  love  a  sin 
That  with  a  kiss  taps  at  the  heart 

An'  lets  an  angel  in  ; 
'Twas  so  love  entered  into  mine 

An'  made  his  dwellin'  there — 
If  thafs  a  sin,  the  Lord  forgive 

Your  beauty,  Rose  Adair  ! 

If  springtime  never  came  at  all 

To  chase  the  winter's  frown, 
Her  smile  would  coax  the  flowers  up 

An'  charm  the  sunshine  down  ; 
There's  not  a  perfumed  breeze  that  blows 

Or  bird  that  charms  the  air, 
But  stole  its  sweetness  from  the  lips 

Of  lovely  Rose  Adair. 

The  leaves  will  fall  in  autumn, 

An'  the  flowers  all  come  to  grief, 
But  the  green  love  in  my  heart  of  hearts 

W^ill  never  shed  a  leaf ! 
For  the  sunshine  of  your  bonny  eyes 

Will  keep  it  green  and  fair, 
An'  your  breath  will  be  its  breeze-o'-spring, 

O,  lovely  Rose  Adair. 


PATRICK  JAMES   COLE  MAN  403 


PATRICK   JAMES  COLEMAN 

BORN  at  Ballaghadereen,  County  Mayo,  in  1867.  He  matri- 
culated at  London  University,  and  is  now  a  journalist  in 
America.  The  following  poem  is  singularly  close  to  the  soil, 
and  characteristic  of  certain  phases  of  Irish  feeling. 

SEED-TIME 


THE  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  you,  Mick, 

Isn't  it  fine  an'  dhry  an'  still  ? 
Just  an  elegant  day,  avic, 

To  stick  the  toleys  on  Tullagh  hill. 
The  field  is  turned,  an'  every  clod 

In  ridge  an'  furrow  is  fresh  an'  brown  ; 
So  let's  away,  with  the  help  o'  God, 

By  the  heel  o'  the  evenin'  we'll  have  them  down, 

As  long  as  there's  plenty  o'  milk  to  churn, 
An'  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 

By  the  winter  fire  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 


There's  a  time  to  work,  an'  a  time  to  talk  ; 

So,  Patsy,  my  boy,  your  pratin'  shtop  ! 
By  Midsummer  Day,  blossom  an'  stalk, 

We'll  feast  our  eyes  on  a  right  good  crop. 
Oh,  the  purple  blossoms,  so  full  o'  joy, 

Burstin'  up  from  our  Irish  loam, 
They're  betther  than  gold  to  the  peasant,  boy  ; 

They  crown  him  king  in  his  Irish  home  ! 

As  long  as  the  cows  have  milk  to  churn, 

With  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 
By  the  winter  hearth  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 

D  D2 


404  BOOK    V 


in 

A  year  ago  we  wor  full  o'  hope, 

For  the  stalks  wor  green  by  the  First  o'  May, 
But  the  brown  blight  fell  over  field  an'  slope, 

An'  the  poreens  rotted  by  Lady  Day. 
You'd  dig  a  ridge  for  a  creel  in  vain  ; 

But  He  left  us  still  our  dacint  friends  ; 
If  it  comes  again  we  won't  complain — 

His  will  be  done  ! — it's  the  besht  He  sends  ! 
As  long  as  we've  plenty  o'  milk  to  churn, 

An'  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 
By  the  winter  fire  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 

IV 

An'  whin  the  turf's  in  the  haggard  piled, 

We'll  come,  plase  God  !  with  our  spades  and  loys  ; 
It's  busy  ye'll  be,  then,  Brigid,  my  child, 

Fillin'  the  baskets  behind  the  boys. 
So  shtick  thim  deep  in  Ould  Ireland's  clay — 

It's  nearly  dusk,  an'  there's  work  galore  ; 
It's  time  enough  in  the  winter  to  play, 
When  the  crop  is  safe  on  our  cabin  floor. 
As  long  as  the  cows  have  milk  to  churn, 

With  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 
By  the  winter  hearth  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 


PATRICK  JOSEPH  McCALL 

MR.  P.  J.  MCCALL  was  born  in  Dublin,  1861,  and  educated  at 
the  Catholic  University  School,  Leeson  Street.  His  two  volumes 
of  poems  besides  excellent  translations  from  the  Irish  contain 
much  racy  and  original  verse,  chiefly  descriptive  of  peasant  life  in 
the  County  Wexford.  There  are  no  literary  echoes  in  his  work  ; 
it  springs  straight  from  the  soil ;  and  though  Mr.  McCall  does 
not  deal  in  tragedy  or  romance,  he  puts  before  us  the  humour, 


PATRICK  JOSEPH  McCALL  405 

the  gaiety,  the  daily  toil,  and  the  half  serious,  half  sportive 
love-making  of  the  Irish  peasant  with  refreshing  fidelity  and 
absence  of  rhetorical  sentiment.  PI  is  two  volumes  of  verse 
are:  IRISH  NdiNiNS  (Daisies),  1894;  and  SONGS  OF  ERINN, 
1899. 

OLD  PEDHAR  CARTHY  FROM  CLONMORE 

IF  you  searched  the  county  o'  Carlow,  ay,  and  back  again, 

Wicklow  too,  and  Wexford,  for  that  matter  you  might  try, 
Never  the  equal  of  Old  Pedhar  would  you  crack  again'— 

Never  such  another  would  delight  your  Irish  eye  ! 
Mirth,  mime,  and  mystery,  all  were  close  combined  in  him, 

Divelment  and  drollery  right  to  the  very  core, 
As  many  tricks  and  turns  as  a  two-year-old  you'd  find  in  him — 

In  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar  Carthy ! 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Shure,  whene'er  the  bouchals  used  to  have  a  game  o'  '  Forty-five,' 

Pedhar  was  the  master  who  could  teach  them  how  to  play  ; 
Bring  a  half-crown — though  you  lost  it,  yet,  as  I'm  alive, 

You'd  be  a  famous  player  to  your  distant  dying  day. 
Scornful  grew  his  look  if  they  chanced  to  hang  your  king  or  queen  ; 

Better  for  your  peace  o'  mind  you'd  never  crossed  his  door ; 
*  You  to  play  cards  ! '  would  he  mutter  in  sarcasm  keen — 

Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  1 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Politics  he  knew  better  than  the  men  in  Parliament, 

And  the  wars  in  Europe  for  the  past  half-century  ; 
If  you  were  to  hear  him  with  Cornelius  Keogh  in  argument, 

Arranging  every  matter  that  was  wrong  in  history  ! 
Ah  !  but  if  the  talking  ever  travelled  back  to  *  Ninety-eight,' 

Then  our  Pedhar's  diatribes  grew  vehement  and  sore. 
Rebel  in  his  heart,  how  he  hated  to  have  long  to  wait ! — 

Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  ! 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  1 


406  BOOK    V 


The  mischief  for  tricks,  he  was  never  done  inventing  them  ; 

Once  he  yoked  Dan  Donohoe's  best  milker  to  the  plough — 
At  the  Fair  of  Hacketstown  there  was  no  circumventing  him  ; 

He'd  clear  a  crowd  of  salachsj  and  you  never  could  tell  how  ! 
The  Ryans  and  the  Briens  and  their  factions  were  afraid  of  him  ; 

For  Pedhar's  fighting  kippeen  could  command  a  ready  score. 
Woe  to  the  boys  that  spoke  cruked,  undismayed  of  him — 

Of  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  ! 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

But  the  times  grew  bad,  and  the  people  talked  so  well  and  wise, 

Fighting  left  poor  Ireland,  and  mad  mischief  had  its  head  ; 
Pedhar,  left  alone,  began  to  muse  and  to  soliloquise, 

Until  the  dear  old  fellow  couldn't  bear  to  leave  the  bed. 
But  when  dead  and  buried  all  the  neighbours  felt  his  bitter  loss — 

The  place  in  Pedhar's  absence  such  a  look  of  sorrow  wore — 
They  sighed  and  cried  in  turn  from  great  Eagle  Hill  to  Cameross 

For  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  ! 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 

Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar,  Old  Pedhar  Carthy  ! 
Old  Pedhar  Carthy  from  Clonmore  ! 


HERSELF  AND  MYSELF 
AN  OLD  MAN'S  SONG 

'TWAS  beyond  at  Macreddin,  at  Owen  Doyle's  weddin'. 

The  boys  got  the  pair  of  us  out  for  a  reel. 
Says  I  :  '  Boys,  excuse  us.'     Says  they  :  *  Don't  refuse  us.' 

*  I'll  play  nice  and  aisy.'  says  Larry  O'Neill. 
So  off  we  went  trippin'  it,  up  an'  down  steppin'  it— 

Herself  and  Myself  on  the  back  of  the  doore  ; 
Till  Molly— God  bless  her  !— fell  into  the  dresser, 

An'  I  tumbled  over  a  child  on  the  floore. 

1  Untidy  people,  tinkers,  &c. 


PATRICK  JOSEPH  McCALL  407 


Says  Herself  to  Myself  :  *  We're  as  good  as  the  best  o'  them/ 
Says  Myself  to  Herself  :  '  Shure,  we're  betther  than  gold.' 

Says  Herself  to  Myself :  '  We're  as  young  as  the  rest  o'  them.' 
Says  Myself  to  Herself  :  '  Troth,  we'll  never  grow  old.' 

As  down  the  lane  goin',  I  felt  my  heart  growin' 

As  young  as  it  was  forty-five  years  ago. 
,'Twas  here  in  this  boreen  I  first  kissed  my  stoireen — 

A  sweet  little  colleen  with  skin  like  the  snow. 
I  looked  at  my  woman — a  song  she  was  hummin' 

As  old  as  the  hills,  so  I  gave  her  a  pogue  \ 1 
'Twas  like  our  old  courtin',  half  sarious,  half  sportin', 

When  Molly  was  young,  an'  when  hoops  were  in  vogue. 
When  she'd  say  to  Myself :  '  You  can  coort  with  the  best  o'  them.' 

.  When  I'd  say  to  Herself:  '  Sure,  I'm  betther  than  gold.' 
When  she'd  say  to  Myself :  *  You're  as  wild  as  the  rest  o'  them.' 
And  I'd  say  to  Herself :  '  Troth,  I'm  time  enough  old.' 


LADY   GILBERT   (ROSA   MULHOLLAND) 

A  POPULAR  and  gifted  Irish  poetess  and  novelist  of  the  day, 
born  in  Belfast  about  fifty  years  ago.  She  has  published  one 
volume  of  delicate  verse  (VAGRANT  VERSES,  1886);  all  her 
other  writings,  which  are  numerous,  being  stories.  In  1891 
she  married  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  J.  T.)  Gilbert,  the  noted  Irish 
archaeologist. 

SONG 

THE  silent  bird  is  hid  in  the  boughs, 

The  scythe  is  hid  in  the  corn, 
The  lazy  oxen  wink  and  drowse, 

The  grateful  sheep  are  shorn  ; 
Redder  and  redder  burns  the  rose, 

The  lily  was  ne'er  so  pale, 
Stiller  and  stiller  the  river  flows 

Along  the  path  to  the  vale. 


Pogue  :  kiss. 


408  BOOK    V 


A  little  door  is  hid  in  the  boughs, 

A  face  is  hiding  within  ; 
When  birds  are  silent  and  oxen  drowse 

Why  should  a  maiden  spin  ? 
Slower  and  slower  turns  the  wheel, 

The  face  turns  red  and  pale, 
Brighter  and  brighter  the  looks  that  steal 

Along  the  path  to  the  vale. 


SAINT  BRIGID 

'MiD  dewy  pastures  girdled  with  blue  air, 

Where  ruddy  kine  the  limpid  waters  drink, 
Through  violet-purpled  woods  of  green  Kildare, 

'Neath  rainbow  skies,  by  tinkling  rivulet's  brink, 
O  Brigid,  young,  thy  tender,  snow-white  feet 

In  days  of  old  on  breezy  morns  and  eves 
Wandered  through  labyrinths  of  sun  and  shade, 
Thy  face  so  innocent-sweet 

Shining  with  love  that  neither  joys  nor  grieves 
Save  as  the  angels,  meek  and  holy  maid  ! 

With  white  fire  in  thy  hand  that  burned  no  man, 

But  cleansed  and  warmed  where'er  its  ray  might  fall, 
Nor  ever  wasted  low,  or  needed  fan, 

Thou  walk'dst  at  eve  among  the  oak-trees  tall. 
There  thou  didst  chant  thy  vespers,  while  each  star 

Grew  brighter  listening  through  the  leafy  screen. 
Then  ceased  the  song-bird  all  his  love-notes  soft, 
His  music  near  or  far, 

Hushing  his  passion  'mid  the  sombre  green 
To  let  thy  peaceful  whispers  float  aloft. 

And  still  from  heavenly  choirs  thou  steal'st  by  night 
To  tell  sweet  Aves  in  the  woods  unseen, 

To  tend  the  shrine -lamps  with  \hy  flambeau  white 
And  set  thy  tender  footprints  in  the  green. 

Thus  sing  our  birds  with  holy  note  and  pure, 
As  though  the  loves  of  angels  were  their  theme ; 


LADY  GILBERT  409 


Thus  burn  to  throbbing  flame  our  sacred  fires 

With  heats  that  still  endure  ; 
Thence  hath  our  daffodil  its  golden  gleam, 
From  thy  dear  mindfulness  that  never  tires  ! 


KATHARINE  TYNAN-HINKSON 

WHEN  in  1885  the  little  volume  entitled  LOUISE  DE  LA 
VALLIERE  was  given  to  the  world,  not  a  few  lovers  of  modern 
poetry  perceived  that  here  was  the  voice  of  a  new  and  a  real 
singer.  Faults  it  would  have  been  doubtless  easy  to  find,  but 
they  were  the  faults  of  youth.  Where,  for  instance,  so  many 
and  so  various  were  the  metres  essayed,  it  would  be  strange 
for  a  young  writer  not  to  fail  occasionally  in  the  striking  of  the 
first  chord ;  the  metre  is  sometimes  not,  in  the  first  line, 
inevitable  and  unmistakable,  and  the  reader  may  stumble  for 
a  moment  before  he  finds  it.  Here  and  there,  again,  in  Mrs. 
Tynan-Hinkson's  work  a  rhyme  may  be  found  which  will  not 
find  acceptance  east  of  St.  George's  Channel.  Having  made 
these  reservations,  we  have  in  LOUISE  DE  LA  VALLIERE  not 
only  a  promise  that  has  been  since  fulfilled,  but  an  achieve- 
ment well  worthy  of  note  for  its  own  sake.  Greater  experience 
in  metrical  training  has  long  since  corrected  such  roughnesses 
as  are  to  be  expected  in  an  early  work,  and  the  most  captious 
critic  will  not  find  fault  with  the  technical  workmanship  of 
THE  WIND  IN  THE  TREES.  And  apart  from  this  point— a 
minor  one,  doubtless,  when  compared  with  the  great  essentials 
of  poetry,  inspiration,  sincereness,  insight,  and  real  melody — 
Miss  Tynan's  subsequent  work  has  placed  her  among  the  fore- 
most women  writers  in  English  verse  of  the  present  day. 

There  are  three  notes  immediately  and  distinctly  discernible 
in  Mrs.  Tynan-Hinkson's  poetry  which  demand  special  obser- 
vation— love  of  country  ;  a  religious  feeling  at  once  deep, 
sincere,  and  glowing ;  and  an  intimate  appreciation  of  the  beauty 
and  essence  of  external  Nature.  The  first  of  these  need  not 


4io  BOOK    V 


detain  us  long  ;  it  is  obvious  on  perusal.  Mrs.  Hinkson  is 
Irish  in  many  of  her  subjects  and  in  much  of  her  style,  and 
her  work  is  pervaded  with  a  healthy  patriotism  such  as  can 
hardly  offend  either  those  of  another  nationality  or  those  of 
her  compatriots  who  differ  from  her  upon  points  of  present 
interest  and  pressure.  She  loves  the  real  Ireland  as  well  as 
that  of  romance,  and  in  (for  instance)  the  pathetic  verses 
entitled  '  An  Island  Fisherman '  gives  a  picture  of  the  home- 
tragedies  of  the  poor  of  to-day  as  faithful  to  truth  and  Nature 
as  the  piece  called  *  Waiting  '  in  her  first  published  volume  is 
to  the  glory  and  glamour  of  an  Ireland  that  has  passed  away. 
But  if  this  be  a  charm  appealing  especially  to  her  compatriots, 
in  her  devotional  moods  she  represents  and  interprets,  as  few 
others  now  living  do,  the  yearnings  and  the  mental  struggles, 
the  temptations,  fears,  and  hopes  of  the  Christian  soul,  not 
only  for  the  Church  to  which  she  belongs,  but  for  an  audience 
larger  still,  inasmuch  as  that  which  has  found  utterance  in  her 
religious  verse  is  concerned  with  the  central  truths  of  Chris- 
tianity and  its  essential  operation.  In  the  '  Chapel  of  the 
Grail,'  the  *  Rock  of  Ages,'  the  *  Angel  of  the  Annunciation,' 
this  devout  and  reverent  spirit  is  expressed  in  artistic  form,  and 
the  charm  of  language  throughout  enables  one  to  understand 
how  to  her  at  least  '  there  remaineth  therefore  a  rest  to  the 
people  of  God.' 

The  critics  have  already  pointed  out  the  special  fascination 
which  St.  Francis  exercises  upon  Mrs.  Hinkson's  mind  as 
shown  in  her  poetry.  This  influence  indeed  is  obvious,  and 
it  would  have  been  strange  had  it  been  absent.  For  that 
gentlest  and  most  lovable  figure  among  the  saints  of  the 
Mediaeval  Church  must  necessarily  make  a  peculiar  appeal  to 
the  spirit  of  a  writer  so  full  of  reverent  admiration  for  all  the 
creatures  of  God  ;  so  imbued  with  a  loving  observation  of  the 
beauties  of  Nature,  whether  exhibited  on  a  broad  and  grand 
scale,  as  in  the  great  landscapes,  or  in  closer  detail  in  bird, 
insect,  flower,  and  leaf.  It  is  in  this  latter  sphere  indeed  that 
to  my  mind  Mrs.  Hinkson  rises  to  her  highest  point.  She 
loves  the  creatures,  and  therefore  understands  them  and  is  able 


KATHARINE   TYNAN-HINKSON  411 

to  depict  them  so  well.  I  have  spoken  of  'the  essence  of 
external  Nature  ; '  what  I  am  endeavouring  to  express  by  the 
phrase  is  the  life  that  is  in  Nature,  and  that  not  every  one  per- 
ceives, because  to  see  it  one  must  have  reverence  and  love 
—reverence  for  the  great  spiritual  forces  that  imbue  external 
Nature,  and  love  for  the  small  things  that  are  so  beautiful,  and 
even  glorious,  when  one  watches  them  with  an  understanding 
eye.  I  have  tried  to  avoid  the  mention  of  Wordsworth  in  this 
connection,  because  to  my  mind  Mrs.  Hinkson  has  come  to 
this  inner  understanding  of  Nature  by  another  path  than  his  ; 
but  of  course  it  is  an  understanding  of  the  same  kind.  Other 
poets  have  had  it ;  it  is  a  part — almost,  though  not  quite,  an 
essential  part — of  the  poetic  insight,  innate  but  trained  by 
observation.  Take,  for  instance,  the  murmur  and  rustle  of 
that  living  thing,  the  rain  ;  how  variously  will  two  different 
poets,  of  diverse  genius,  take  note  of  it  !  In  his  beautiful 
verses  '  11  pleure  dans  mon  cceur  Comme  il  pleut  sur  la  ville ' 
Verlaine  has  the  lines  : 

O  bruit  doux  de  la  pluie 
Par  terre  et  sur  les  toils  ! 
Pour  un  cceur  qui  s'ennuie 
O  le  chant  de  la  pluie  ! 

The  rain  is  already  falling  ;  we  are  treating  of  its  effect  on  the 
cast-down  spirit  of  a  poet  caged  and  confined  in  prison-cells. 
We  are  in  a  city;  the  rain  falls  on  roof  and  pavement.  Compare 
with  this  Mrs.  Hinkson's  short  poem  called  c  Drought  : ' 

Little  voices  complain, 

The  leaves  rustle  before  the  rain. 

Only  the  trembling  cry 

Of  young  leaves  murmuring  thirstily. 

Only  the  moan  and  stir 

Of  little  hands  in  the  boughs  I  hear, 

Beckoning  the  rain  to  come 

Out  of  the  evening,  out  of  the  gloom. 

Here  the  rain  has  not  yet  fallen  ;  its  sister-creatures  are 
calling,  yearning  for  it.    The  voices  are  the  voices  of  the  country; 


4I2  BOOK   V 


we  are  in  the  broad  free  air  of  heaven  The  human  touch  is 
here  also,  but  it  does  not  come  till  all  the  rest  is  realised  : 

And  hearts  that  complain. 

The  leaves  rustle  before  the  rain. 

Both  passages  are  beautiful ;  in  both  a  few  lines  suffice  to 
draw  the  picture,  a  few  notes  to  make  the  music  and  waken  the 
emotion  ;  but  the  results  are  quite  different. 

Mrs.  Hinkson  is  at  her  best  out  of  doors.  She  exults  in 
the  beauty  of  Nature ;  nothing  is  too  small,  too  near  the  sod 
for  observation,  for  love  and  song.  In  THE  WIND  IN  THE 
TREES  the  piece  called  '  Leaves,'  somewhat  akin  to  that  just 
now  quoted,  is  full  of  subdued  expression  and  fine  suggestion, 
and  yet  it  is  radiant  with  colour.  For  Mrs.  Hinkson  has  a 
keen  sense  of  natural  colour ;  naturally  therefore  she  delights 
in  it  ;  colour  is  the  music  of  the  eye.  To  one  who  interprets 
the  leaves  so  well,  what  songs  have  not  the  flowers  to  sing? 
Her  own,  therefore,  are  full  of  natural  colour ;  they  are  full 
also  of  the  perfumes  of  flower  and  field,  and  of  the  voices  of 
the  birds.  Of  these  last  the  short  poem  entitled  '  Larks  '  is 
only  one  instance.  It  is  the  silence  of  Nature  that  is  dreadful, 
and  the  exact  word  is  found  by  the  poet,  as  (in  'Cruel 
Winter ' ) 

The  dear  song-thrush  is  dead, 

The  valley  hath  instead 
Only  the  silence. 

The  silence  aches  all  day 

In  hills  and  valleys  gray  .  .  . 

I  must  not  leave  without  mention  the  songs  of  pathos  and 
affection,  many  of  them  touching  and  sweet,  which  are  to  be 
found  scattered  through  Mrs.  Hinkson's  volumes.  I  could 
wish,  perhaps,  that  the  author  had  exercised  a  little  more 
literary  economy  ;  in  so  considerable  an  output  not  everything 
can  be  at  the  same  high  level.  Yet  sometimes  the  fault  may 
lie  with  the  reader  or  the  critic.  Thus,  I  have  not  spoken  of 
the  Miracle  Plays,  because  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  myself,  hold- 
ing as  I  do  that  the  mediaeval  religious  drama  has  not  been 


KATHARINE   TYNAN-HINKSOh  413 

successfully  revived  by  any  writer,  even  the  greatest.  Mrs. 
Hinkson  certainly  possesses  the  first  necessary  quality  for  such 
work,  the  right  devotional  spirit ;  but  I  am  disposed  to  cavil 
at  the  form  (or  else,  perhaps,  at  the  title).  '  The  play — the  play's 
the  thing,'  and  in  English — at  all  events,  in  this  dying  cen- 
tury— I  doubt  whether  dramatic  action  and  the  dramatic  spirit 
can  be  rendered  in  lyrical  measures  such  as  Mrs.  Hinkson  has 
here  adopted.  But  this  is  the  opinion  of  one  who  holds  that 
Calderon  and  Metastasio  cannot  be  translated  into  the  English 
tongue  without  considerable  loss.  Every  language  has  its 
limitations  ;  yet  it  is  sometimes  well  to  strive  against  them,  in 
the  hope  of  ultimately  broadening  them,  even  but  a  little. 
Mrs.  Hinkson  has  done  gallant  service  in  several  spheres  ;  but 
it  will  have  been  perceived  that  the  present  writer's  preference 
is  for  those  delightful  swift  glances  into  Nature  and  Nature's 
•secrets  of  which  THE  WIND  IN  THE  TREES  is  full;  this  at 
least  is  a  booklet  from  which  I  would  not  willingly  spare  a 
page.  It  holds  the  secrets  of  the  birds,  the  leaves,  and  the 
flowers  ;  and  the  human  voice,  too,  is  deep  and  touching — the 
voice  of  the  Irish  poetess  : 

Oh,  green  and  fresh  your  English  sod 

With  daisies  sprinkled  over  ; 
But  greener  far  were  the  fields  I  trod, 

And  the  honeyed  Irish  clover 

Oh,  well  your  skylark  cleaves  the  blue 

To  bid  the  sun  good-morrow  ; 
He  has  not  the  bonny  song  I  knew 

High  over  an  Irish  furrow. 

And  often,  often,  I'm  longing  still, 

This  gay  and  golden  weather, 
For  my  father's  face  by  an  Irish  hill 

And  he  and  I  together. 

GEORGE  A.  GREENE. 

Born  in  Dublin  in  the  early  sixties,  Miss  Katharine  Tynan  was  for 
some  time  at  school  at  a  Dominican  convent  in  Drogheda,  which,  however, 
she  left  at  the  age  of  fourteen  :  the  rest  of  her  education  was  gained  at 
home,  and  mainly  by  her  own  energy  and  love  of  study,  to  which  her 


414  BOOK   V 


father  allowed  full  scope  by  permitting  her  a  broad  and  varied  course  of 
reading  in  accordance  with  her  tastes.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  visits 
to  London,  Miss  Tynan  remained  at  home  till  her  marriage  in  1893  with 
Mr.  Henry  Hinkson,  ex- Scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  himself  a 
well-known  writer.  She  is  now  settled  in  London  with  her  husband,  and 
is  engaged  in  constant  literary  work.  Her  poetical  output  is  somewhat 
considerable  for  the  comparatively  short  time  during  which  it  has  appeared  : 
it  began  in  1885  with  the  publication  of  LOUISE  DE  LA  VALLIERE  AND 
OTHER  POEMS  (Kegan  Paul  £  Co.),  which  has  been  followed  by 
SHAMROCKS,  1887  ;  BALLADS  AND  LYRICS,  1892  (same  publishers)  ; 
CUCKOO  SONGS  (John  Lane,  1894) ;  MIRACLE  PLAYS  (idem,  1896)  ;  A 
LOVER'S  BREAST-KNOT  (Elkin  Mathews,  1897)  ;  and  THE  WIND  IN  THE 
TREES  (Grant  Richards,  1898).  Mrs.  Tynan-Hinkson  has  also  written  a 
number  of  prose  works. 

LARKS 

ALL  day  in  exquisite  air 
The  song  clomb  an  invisible  stair, 
Flight  on  flight,  story  on  story, 
Into  the  dazzling  glory. 

There  was  no  bird,  only  a  singing, 
Up  in  the  glory,  climbing  and  ringing, 
Like  a  small  golden  cloud  at  even, 
Trembling  'twixt  earth  and  heaven. 

I  saw  no  staircase  winding,  winding, 
Up  in  the  dazzle,  sapphire  and  blinding, 
Yet  round  by  round,  in  exquisite  air, 
The  song  went  up  the  stair. 

DAFFODIL 

WHO  passes  down  the  wintry  street  ? 

Hey,  ho,  daffodil ! 
A  sudden  flame  of  gold  and  sweet. 

With  sword  of  emerald  girt  so  meet, 
And  golden  gay  from  head  to  feet. 

How  are  you  here  this  wintry  day  ? 

Hey,  ho,  daffodil  ! 
Your  radiant  fellows  yet  delay. 


KATHARINE    TYNAN-HINKSON  415 


No  windflower  dances  scarlet  gay, 
Nor  crocus-flame  lights  up  the  way. 

What  land  of  cloth  o'  gold  and  green, 

Hey,  ho,  daffodil ! 
Cloth  o'  gold  with  the  green  between, 

Was  that  you  left  but  yestere'en 
To  light  a  gloomy  world  and  mean  ? 

King  trumpeter  to  Flora  queen, 
Hey,  ho,  daffodil ! 
Blow,  and  the  golden  jousts  begin. 

SUMMER-SWEET 

HONEY-SWEET,  sweet  as  honey  smell  the  lilies, 

Little  lilies  of  the  gold  in  a  ring  ; 
Little  censers  of  pale  gold  are  the  lilies, 

That  the  wind,  sweet  and  sunny,  sets  a-swing. 

Smell  the  rose,  sweet  of  sweets,  all  a-blowing  ! 

Hear  the  cuckoo  call  in  dreams,  low  and  sweet  ! 
Like  a  very  John-a-Dreams  coming,  going. 

There's  honey  in  the  grass  at  our  feet. 

There's  honey  in  the  leaf  and  the  blossom, 
And  honey  in  the  night  and  the  day, 

And  honey-sweet  the  heart  in  Love's  bosom, 
And  honey  sweet  the  words  Love  will  say. 

AUGUST  WEATHER 

DEAD  heat  and  windless  air, 

And  silence  over  all ; 
Never  a  leaf  astir, 

But  the  ripe  apples  fall  ; 
Plums  are  purple-red, 

Pears  amber  and  brown  ; 
Thud!  in  the  garden-bed 

Ripe  apples  fall  down. 


416  BOOK    V 


Air  like  a  cider-press 

With  the  bruised  apples'  scent 
Low  whistles  express 

Some  sleepy  bird's  content ; 
Still  world  and  windless  sky, 

A  mist  of  heat  o'er  all ; 
Peace  like  a  lullaby, 

And  the  ripe  apples  fall. 


AN  ISLAND  FISHERMAN 

I  GROAN  as  I  put  out 

My.  nets  on  the  say, 
To  hear  the  little  girshas  shout, 

Dancin'  among  the  spray. 

Ochone  /  the  childher  pass 

An'  lave  us  to  our  grief  ; 
The  stranger  took  my  little  lass 

At  the  fall  o'  the  leaf. 

Why  would  you  go  so  fast 
With  him  you  never  knew  ? 

In  all  the  throuble  that  is  past 
I  never  frowned  on  you. 

The  light  o'  my  old  eyes  ! 

The  comfort  o'  my  heart  ! 
Waitin'  for  me  your  mother  lies 

In  blessed  Innishart. 

Her  lone  grave  I  keep 

From  all  the  cold  world  wide, 
But  you  in  life  an'  death  will  sleep 

The  stranger  beside. 

Ochone  !  my  thoughts  are  wild  : 

But  little  blame  I  say  ; 
An  ould  man  hungerin'  for  his  child, 

Fishin'  the  livelong  day. 


KATHARINE   TYNAN-HIAKSON  417 


You  will  not  run  again, 

Laughin'  to  see  me  land. 
Oh,  what  was  pain  an'  throuble  then, 

Holdin'  your  little  hand? 

Or  when  your  head  let  fall 
Its  soft  curls  on  my  breast  ? 

Why  do  the  childher  grow  at  all 
To  love  the  stranger  best  ? 


Lux  IN  TENEBRIS 

AT  night  what  things  will  stalk  abroad, 
What  veiled  shapes,  and  eyes  of  dread  ! 

With  phantoms  in  a  lonely  road 
And  visions  of  the  dead. 

The  kindly  room  when  day  is  here, 
At  night  takes  ghostly  terrors  on  ; 

And  every  shadow  hath  its  fear, 
And  every  wind  its  moan. 

Lord  Jesus,  Day-Star  of  the  world, 
Rise  Thou  and  bid  this  dark  depart 

And  all  the  east,  a  rose  uncurled, 
Grow  golden  at  the  heart  ! 

Lord,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 

Keep  Thou  my  soul !  a  trembling  thing 

As  any  moth  that  in  daylight 
Will  spread  a  rainbow  wing. 


WINTER  EVENING 

BUT  the  rain  is  gone  by,  and  the  day's  dying  out  in  a  splendour  ; 
There  is  flight  as  of  many  gold  wings  in  the  heart  of  the  sky  : 
God's  birds,  it  may  be,  who  return  from  their  ministry  tender, 
Flying  home  from  the  earth,  like  the  earth-birds  when  darkness 
is  nigh. 

E  E 


418  BOOK    V 


Gold  plumes  and  gold  feathers,  the  wings  hide  the  roseate  faces, 
But  a  glimmer  of  roseate  feet  breaks  the  massing  of  gold  : 

There's  gold  hair  blowing  back,  and  a  drifting  of  one  in  clear 

spaces, 
A  little  child-angel  whose  flight  is  less  sure  and  less  bold 

They  are  gone,  they  are  flown,  but  their  footprints  have  left  the 

sky  ruddy, 

And  the  night's  coming  on  with  a  moon  in  a  tender  green  sea, 
And  my  heart  is  fled  home,  with  a  flight  that  is  certain  and  steady 
To  her  home,  to  her  nest,  to  the  place  where  her  treasure  shall 

be- 
Across  the  dark  hills  where  the  scarlet  to  purple  is  waning  ; 

For  the  birds   will  fly  home,  will  fly  home,  when   the  night's 

coming  on. 

But  hark  !  in  the  trees  how  the  wind  is  complaining  and  straining, 
For  the  birds  that  are  flown  it  may  be,  or  the  nests  that  are 
gone. 


WAITING 

IN  a  grey  cave,  where  comes  no  glimpse  of  sky, 
Set  in  the  blue  hill's  heart  full  many  a  mile, 

Having  the  dripping  stone  for  canopy, 

Missing  the  wind's  laugh  and  the  good  sun's  smile, 

I,  Fionn,  with  all  my  sleeping  warriors  lie. 

In  the  great  outer  cave  our  horses  are, 

Carved  of  grey  stone,  with  heads  erect,  amazed, 

Purple  their  trappings,  gold  each  bolt  and  bar, 

One  fore-foot  poised,  the  quivering  thin  ears  raised 

Methinks  they  scent  the  battle  from  afar. 

A  frozen  hound  lies  by  each  warrior's  feet — 

Ah,  Bran,  my  jewel  !  Bran,  my  king  of  hounds  ! 

Deep-throated  art  thou,  mighty-flanked,  and  fleet ; 
Dost  thou  remember  how  with  giant  bounds 

Didst  chase  the  red  deer  in  the  noontide  heat  ? 


KATHARINE    TYNAN-HINKSON  419 

I  was  a  king  in  ages  long  ago, 

A  mighty  warrior,  and  a  seer  likewise, 
Still  mine  eyes  look  with  solemn  gaze  of  woe 

From  stony  lids  adown  the  centuries, 
And  in  my  frozen  heart  I  know,  I  know. 

A  giant  I,  of  a  primeval  race, 

.    These,  great-limbed,  bearing  helm  and  shield  and  sword, 
My  good  knights  are,  and  each  still,  awful  face 
Will  one  day  wake  to  knowledge  at  a  word — 
O'erhead  the  groaning  years  turn  round  apace. 

Here  with  the  peaceful  dead  we  keep  our  state  ; 

Some  day  a  cry  shall  ring  adown  the  lands  : 
*  The  hour  is  come,  the  hour  grown  large  with  fate.' 

He  knows  who  hath  the  centuries  in  His  hands 
When  that  shall  be — till  then  we  watch  and  wait. 

The  queens  that  loved  us,  whither  be  they  gone, 
The  sweet,  large  women  with  the  hair  as  gold, 

As  though  one  drew  long  threads  from  out  the  sun  ? 
Ages  ago,  grown  tired,  and  very  cold, 

They  fell  asleep  beneath  the  daisies  wan. 

The  waving  woods  are  gone  that  once  we  knew, 

And  towns  grown  grey  with  years  are  in  their  place  : 

A  little  lake,  as  innocent  and  blue 

As  my  queen's  eyes  were,  lifts  a  baby  face 

Where  once  my  palace  towers  were  fair  to  view. 

The  fierce  old  gods  we  hailed  with  worshipping, 
The  blind  old  gods,  waxed  mad  with  sin  and  blood, 

Laid  down  their  godhead  as  an  idle  thing 
At  a  God's  feet,  whose  throne  was  but  a  Rood  ; 

His  crown,  wrought  thorns  ;  His  joy,  long  travailing. 

Here  in  the  gloom  I  see  it  all  again, 

As  ages  since  in  visions  mystical 
I  saw  the  swaying  crowds  of  fierce-eyed  men, 

And  heard  the  murmurs  in  the  judgment  hall. 
Oh,  for  one  charge  of  my  dark  warriors  then  ! 

E  E2 


420  BOOK    V 


Nay,  if  He  willed,  His  Father  presently 
Twelve  star-girt  legions  unto  Him  had  given. 

I  traced  the  blood-stained  path  to  Calvary, 
And  heard  far  off  the  angels  weep  in  heaven  ; 

Then  the  Rood's  arms  against  an  awful  sky. 

I  saw  Him  when  they  pierced  Him,  hands  and  feet, 
And  one  came  by  and  smote  Him,  this  new  King, 

So  pale  and  harmless,  on  the  tired  face  sweet  ; 
He  was  so  lovely  and  so  pitying, 

The  icy  heart  in  me  began  to  beat. 

Then  a  strong  cry — the  mountain  heaved  and  swayed 
That  held  us  in  its  heart,  the  groaning  world 

Was  reft  with  lightning  and  in  ruins  laid, 

His  Father's  awful  hand  the  red  bolts  hurled, 

And  He  was  dead — I  trembled,  sore  afraid. 

Then  I  upraised  myself  with  mighty  strain 

In  the  gloom,  I  heard  the  tumult  rage  without, 

I  saw  those  large  dead  faces  glimmer  plain, 
The  life  just  stirred  within  them  and  went  out, 

And  I  fell  back,  and  grew  to  stone  again. 

So  the  years  went  -  on  earth  how  fleet  they  be  ! 

Here  in  this  cave  their  feet  are  slow  of  pace, 
And  I  grow  old,  and  tired  exceedingly, 

I  would  the  sweet  earth  were  my  dwelling-place — 
Shamrocks  and  little  daisies  wrapping  me  ! 

There  I  should  lie,  and  feel  the  silence  sweet 

As  a  meadow  at  noon,  where  birds  sing  in  the  trees  ; 

To  mine  ears  should  come  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
And  baby  cries,  and  croon  of  summer  seas, 

And  the  wind's  laughter  in  the  upland  wheat. 

Meantime  o'erhead  the  years  were  full  and  bright, 
With  a  kind  sun,  and  gold  wide  fields  of  corn  ; 

The  happy  children  sang  from  morn  to  night, 

The  blessed  church  bells  rang,  new  arts  were  born, 

Strong  towns  rose  up  and  glimmered  fair  and  white. 


KATHARINE   TYNAN-HINKSON  421 


Once  came  a  wind  of  conflict,  fierce  as  hail, 
And  beat  about  my  brows  :  on  the  eastward  shore, 

Where  never  since  the  Vikings'  dark  ships  sail, 
All  day  the  battle  raged  with  mighty  roar  ; 

At  night  the  Victor's  fair  dead  face  was  pale. 

Ah  !  the  dark  years  since  then,  the  anguished  cry 
That  pierced  my  deaf  ears,  made  my  hard  eyes  weep, 

From  Erin  wrestling  in  her  agony, 

While  we,  her  strongest,  in  a  helpless  sleep, 

Lay,  as  the  blood-stained  years  trailed  slowly  by. 

And  often  in  those  years  the  East  was  drest 

In  phantom  fires,  that  mocked  the  distant  dawn, 

Then  blackest  night— her  bravest  and  her  best 
Were  led  to  die,  while  I  slept  dumbly  on, 

With  the  whole  mountain's  weight  upon  my  breast. 

Once  in  my  time  it  chanced  a  peasant  hind 

Strayed  to  this  cave.     I  heard,  and  burst  my  chain, 

And  raised  my  awful  face  stone-dead  and  blind, 
Cried,  '  Is  it  time  ? '  and  so  fell  back  again. 

I  heard  his  wild  cry  borne  adown  the  wind. 

Some  hearts  wait  with  us.     Owen  Roe  O'Neill, 
The  kingliest  king  that  ever  went  uncrowned, 

Sleeps  in  his  panoply  of  gold  and  steel 
Ready  to  wake,  and  in  the  kindly  ground 

A  many  another's  death-wounds  close  and  heal. 

Great  Hugh  O'Neill,  far  off  in  purple  Rome, 
And  Hugh  O'Donnell,  in  their  stately  tombs 

Lie,  with  their  grand  fair  faces  turned  to  home. 
Some  day  a  voice  will  ring  adown  the  glooms  : 

1  Arise,  ye  Princes,  for  the  hour  is  come  ! ' 

And  these  will  rise,  and  we  will  wait  them  here, 

In  this  blue  hill-heart  in  fair  Donegal  ; 
That  hour  shall  sound  the  clash  of  sword  and  spear, 

The  steeds  shall  neigh  to  hear  their  masters'  call, 
And  the  hounds'  cry  shall  echo  shrill  and  clear. 


422  BOOK   V 


ST.  FRANCIS  AND  THE  WOLF 

THIS  wolf  for  many  a  day 

Had  scourged  and  trodden  down 
The  folk  of  Agobio  town  ; 

Old  was  he,  lean  and  grey. 

Dragging  a  mildewed  bone, 
Down  from  his  lair  he  came, 
Saw  in  the  sunset  flame 

Our  Father  standing  alone. 

Dust  on  his  threadbare  gown, 
Dust  on  his  blessed  feet, 
Fairit  from  long  fast  and  heat, 

His  light  of  life  died  down. 

This  wolf  laid  bare  his  teeth, 
And  growling  low  there  stood  ; 
His  lips  were  black  with  blood, 

His  eyes  were  fires  of  death. 

So  for  a  spring  crouched  he ; 
But  the  Saint  raised  his  head — 
'  Peace,  Brother  Wolf,'  he  said, 

*  God  made  both  thee  and  me.' 

And  with  the  Cross  signed  him  : 
The  wolf  fell  back  a-stare, 
Sat  on  his  haunches  there, 

Forbidding,  black  and  grim. 

'  Come  nearer,  in  Christ's  Name,' 
Said  Francis,  and,  so  bid, 
Like  a  small  dog  that's  chid, 

The  fierce  beast  fawning  came. 

Trotting  against  his  side, 
And  licked  the  tender  hand 
That  with  soft  touch  and  bland 

Caressed  his  wicked  hide. 


KATHARINE   TYNAN-HINKSON  423 

*  Brother,'  the  Saint  said  then, 

'  Who  gave  thee  leave  to  kill  ? 
Thou  hast  slain  of  thine  own  will 
Not  only  beasts,  but  men. 

'And  God  is  wroth  with  thee  : 

If  thou  wilt  not  repent, 

His  anger  shall  be  sent 
To  smite  thee  terribly. 

'  See,  all  men  hate  thy  name, 

And  with  it  mothers  fright 

The  froward  child  by  night. 
Great  are  thy  sin  and  shame. 

1  All  true  dogs  thee  pursue  ; 

Thou  shouldst  hang  high  in  air 

Like  a  thief  and  murderer, 
Hadst  thou  thy  lavful  due. 

1  Yet,  seeing  His  hands  have  made 
Even  thee,  thou  wicked  one 
I  bring  no  malison, 
But  blessing  bring  instead. 

'  And  I  will  purchase  peace 

Between  this  folk  and  thee 

So  love  for  hate  shall  be, 
And  all  thy  sinning  cease. 

*  Say,  wilt  thou  have  it  so  ? ' 

Thereat,  far  off,  we  saw 
The  beast  lift  up  his  paw, 
His  great  tail  wagging  go. 

Our  Father  took  the  paw 

Into  his  blessed  hand, 

Knelt  down  upon  the  sand, 
Facing  the  creature's  jaw. 


424  BOOK   V 


That  were  a  sight  to  see  : 
Agobio's  folk  trooped  out  ; 
They  heard  not  all  that  rout, 

Neither  the  beast  nor  he. 

For  he  was  praying  yet, 
And  on  his  illumined  face 
A  shamed  and  loving  gaze 

The  terrible  wolf  had  set. 

When  they  came  through  the  town, 
His  hand  that  beast  did  stroke, 
He  spake  unto  the  folk 

Flocking  to  touch  his  gown. 

A  sweet  discourse  was  this  ; 

He  prayed  them  that  they  make 
Peace,  for  the  Lord  Christ's  sake, 

With  this  poor  wolf  of  His  ; 

And  told  them  of  their  sins, 
How  each  was  deadlier  far 
Than  wolves  or  lions  are, 

Or  sharks  with  sword-like  fins. 

Afterwards  some  came  near, 

Took  the  beast's  paw  and  shook, 
And  answered  his  sad  look 

With  words  of  honest  cheer. 

Our  Father,  ere  he  went, 

Bade  that  each  one  should  leave 
Some  food  at  morn  and  eve 

For  his  poor  penitent. 

And  so,  three  years  or  more, 

The  wolf  came  morn  and  even — 
Yea,  long  forgiven  and  shriven, 

Fed  at  each  townsman's  door  ; 


ROSE  KAVANAGH  425 

And  grew  more  grey  and  old, 

Withal  so  sad  and  mild, 

Him  feared  no  little  child 
Sitting  in  the  sun's  gold. 

The  women,  soft  of  heart, 

Trusted  him  and  were  kind  : 

Men  grew  of  equal  mind, 
None  longer  stepped  apart. 

The  very  dogs,  'twas  said, 

Would  greet  him  courteously, 

And  pass  his  portion  by, 
Though  they  went  on  unfed. 

But  when  three  years  were  gone 

He  came  no  more,  but  died  ; 

In  a  cave  on  the  hillside 
You  may  count  each  whitening  bone. 

And  then  it  came  to  pass 

All  gently  of  him  spake, 

For  Francis  his  dear  sake, 
Whose  Brother  Wolf  this  was. 


ROSE   KAVANAGH 

BORN  at  Killadroy,  County  Tyrone,  on  June  23,  1859,  and 
died  of  consumption  on  February  26,  1891.  She  was  a  con- 
tributor of  poems  and  stories  to  the  Irish  papers,  &c.,  and  a 
bright  future  was  predicted  for  her.  Her  early  death  caused 
widespread  regret  among  readers  of  Irish  literature,  and  a  deep 
sense  of  loss  to  the  personal  friends  to  whom  her  sweet  and  noble 
character  had  endeared  her.  A  collected  edition  of  her  poems 
has  been  published  in  Dublin. 


426  BOOK    V 


ST.  MICHAN'S  CHURCHYARD 

INSIDE  the  city's  throbbing  heart 

One  spot  I  know  set  well  apart 

From  life's  hard  highway,  life's  loud  mart. 

Each  Dublin  lane  and  street  and  square 

Around  might  echo  ;  but  in  there 

The  sound  stole  soft  as  whispered  prayer. 

A  little,  lonely,  green  graveyard, 

The  old  churchyard  its  solemn  guard, 

The  gate  with  naught  but  sunbeams  barred  ; 

While  other  sunbeams  went  and  came 
Above  the  stone  which  waits  the  name 
His  land  must  write  with  Freedom's  flame.1 

The  slender  elm  above  that  stone, 

Its  summer  wreath  of  leaves  had  thrown 

Around  the  heart  so  quiet  grown. 

A  robin  the  bare  boughs  among, 
Let  loose  his  little  soul  in  song — 
Quick  liquid  gushes  fresh  and  strong  ! 

And  quiet  heart,  and  bird  and  tree, 
Seemed  linked  in  some  strange  sympathy 
Too  fine  for  mortal  eye  to  see — 

But  full  of  balm  and  soothing  sweet, 
For  those  who  sought  that  calm  retreat  ; 
For  aching  breast  and  weary  feet. 

Each  crowded  street  and  thoroughfare 
Was  echoing  round  it — yet  in  there 
The  peace  of  Heaven  was  everywhere  ! 

1  Referring  to  the  grave  of  Robert  Emmet. 


ALICE  FURLONG  427 


ALICE   FURLONG 

Miss  FURLONG'S  small  volume  of  poems,  ROSES  AND  RUE, 
which  appeared  in  1899,  has  attracted  much  recognition  from 
the  leading  organs  of  literary  criticism.  Her  poetry  has  delicacy, 
pathos,  and  music,  and  much  power  of  drawing  a  vivid  picture 
in  few  words.  The  authoress  was  born  in  the  Co.  Dublin 
about  1875,  and  has  written  much  in  prose  and  verse  for  The 
Irish  Monthly  and  other  periodicals. 

THE  DREAMER 

A  WIND  that  dies  on  the  meadows  lush, 
Trembling  stars  in  the  breathless  hush  ! — 
The  maiden's  sleeping  face  doth  bloom 
A  sad,  white  lily  in  the  gloom. 

Along  the  limpid  horizon  borne 
The  first  gold  breathing  of  the  morn  ! — 
A  lovely  dawn  of  dreams  doth  creep 
Athwart  the  darkness  of  her  sleep. 

In  the  dim  shadow  of  the  eaves 
A  quiet  stir  of  lifted  leaves  ! 
As  in  the  old,  beloved  days, 
She  wandereth  by  happy  ways. 

With  half-awakened  twitterings, 

The  young  birds  preen  their  folded  wings  ! 

She  giveth  a  forget-me-not 

To  him  who  long  ago  forgot. 

Athwart  the  meadowy,  dewy-sweet, 
A  wind  comes  wandering  on  light  feet  ! 
For  her  the  wind  is  from  the  south, 
His  kiss  is  kind  upon  her  mouth. 

In  the  bird's  house  of  emerald 
The  sun  is  weaving  webs  of  gold  ! 
He  never  coldly  went  apart ! 
She  never  broke  her  passionate  heart ! 


428  BOOK   V 


Pipeth  clear  from  the  orchard  close 
A  thrush  in  the  bowers  of  white  and  rose  ! 
She  waketh  praying  :  '  God  is  good, 
With  visions  for  my  solitude.' 

For  full  delight  of  birds  and  flowers 
The  long  day  spins  its  golden  hours. 
She  serves  the  household  destinies  ; 
The  dream  is  happy  in  her.  eyes. 


JANE   BARLOW 

Miss  JANE  BARLOW'S  admirable  sketches  of  peasant-life  in 
Ireland  have  in  a  few  years  gained  for  her  a  well-deserved  repu- 
tation among  the  Irish  writers  in  prose  of  the  present  genera- 
tion ;  it  may  be  doubted  indeed  whether  any  one  has  to  the 
same  extent  sounded  the  depths  of  Irish  character  in  the 
country  districts  and  touched  so  many  chords  of  sympathy, 
humour,  and  pathos.  Of  her  work  in  verse,  with  which  I  have 
here  to  do,  a  portion,  and  that  perhaps  the  most  significant, 
falls  into  the  same  category.  BOGLAND  STUDIES  (among 
which  *  Terence  Macran '  may  be  included)  are  indeed,  save 
for  the  metrical  form,  just  another  volume  of  the  IRISH  IDYLLS 
which  have  charmed  and  delighted  so  many  readers.  It  is  not 
merely  the  peasant  dialect  that  is  faithfully  and  picturesquely 
reproduced,  but  the  working  of  the  rural  mind  and  the  emo- 
tions of  the  heart,  fully  and  sympathetically  understood  ;  so 
much  so  that  in  the  eight  studies  thus  classed  together  it 
has  become  inevitable  that  in  each  case  the  narrator  should 
be  the  peasant  himself  or  herself.  It  is  because  the  author 
has  so  completely  succeeded  in  identifying  herself  with  her 
characters  that  the  language  employed  by  them  as  means  of 
expression  is  so  veritably  and  vividly  Irish,  natural,  and  not 
put  on.  Thus  the  flashes  of  wit,  the  neat  turns  of  phrase,  the 
quick  and  apt  similes,  the  quaint  and  picturesque  form  and 
colour  of  language,  strike  the  reader  not  only  as  characteristic, 


JANE  BARLOW  429 


unmistakable  Irish  sayings,  exactly  such  as  are  to  be  caught 
flying  in  every  village,  but  they  arise  naturally  out  of  the 
thought.  One  recognises  that  at  that  juncture  the  peasant 
would  have  said  either  what  he  is  made  to  say,  or  something 
very  like  it,  and  bearing  the  same  individual  semblance. 
Hence  while  such  passages  are  eminently  quotable,  they  lose 
somewhat  by  quotation  apart  from  their  context.  It  is  because 
the  individual  and  the  environment  have  between  them  created 
the  psychological  moment  that  the  peasant's  quaint  philosophy 
breaks  out  so  aptly  in  such  passages  as 

For  it's  aisier  risin'  a  quarrel  than  sthrikin'  a  match  on  a  wall ; 
or 

So  thinks  I  to  meself  ;  but  sure,  musha,  wan's  thoughts  is  like  beads  off  a 

thread, 
Slippin'  each  after  each  in  a  hurry  :  an'  so  I  kep'  considherin'  on  ; 

or 

Thin  the  bugle  rang  out  — Och,  I've  ne'er  heard  the  like,  yet  wan  aisy 

can  tell 
They'd  ha'  lep'  all  the  locked  gates  of  Heaven  to  ride  with  that  music 

to  Hell ; 

or  again 

'T  is  the  same  as  if  God  an'  the  Divil  tuk  turns  to  be  ownin'  the  earth. 

It  would  be  hypercritical  to  examine  the  metre  too  closely; 
the  narrative  comes  rushing  quickly,  with  sudden  irregular 
gusts,  as  one  feels  it  would  naturally  come. 

For  my  present  purpose,  that  of  selection,  this  unity  and 
continuity  has  one  inconvenience  ;  the  stories  in  BOGLAND 
STUDIES  are  too  long  for  one  of  them  to  be  quoted  here  in  its 
entirety,  and  being  in  fact  *  short  stories '  they  are  too  ably 
written  to  permit  of  abbreviation,  and  extracts  would  be  quite 
unrepresentative  of  Miss  Barlow's  excellence  in  this  line.  I 
can  only  hope  that  what  I  have  said  will  cause  readers  to  turn  to 
them  with  something  of  that  zest  which  those  who  know  her 
prose  writings  do  not  need  to  have  the  critic's  help  in  awaken- 
ing. In  TH'  OULD  MASTER  we  have  a  tragedy  of  the  sea  told 


430  BOOK    V 


from  the  peasant's  standpoint  on  land,  the  real  tragedy  being  in 
the  household  of  the  kind  old  landlord  during  his  long  bereave- 
ment and  before  his  long-absent  son  returns  to  die  in  the  bay 
at  home,  for  of  this  last  cniel  blow  Fate,  less  cruel  than  would 
at  first  appear,  spares  him  the  knowledge.  Yet  the  shadow 
deepens  upon  the  land,  for  the  new  owner  of  the  estate  will  be 
a  stranger  having  no  hold  upon  the  affections  of  the  peasantry, 
the  expression  of  which  forms  the  lighter  side  of  the  picture. 
The  ruling  class  appears  in  a  far  less  favourable  light  in  *  Past 
Praying  for  ;  or,  The  Souper's  Widow,'  where  the  crime  of  the 
dead  '  souper '  lay  in  accepting,  on  condition  of  attending  at 
Sunday  service,  the  relief  distributed  by  the  parson  -  accepting 
it  not  for  himself,  for  he  died  leaving  it  untouched,  but  for 
his  family,  perishing  around  him  in  the  dread  years  of  famine. 
In  'Walled  Out'  and  in  'Last  Time  at  M'Gurk's  '  we  have 
two  excellent  studies  of  peasant  philosophy ;  in  '  Terence 
Macran  '  a  delightful  and  at  the  same  time  pathetic  picture  of 
one  of  the  old  hedge-schools  of  Ireland.  But  the  most 
dramatic  of  these  stories  is  that  entitled  '  By  the  Bog-hole.' 
The  hero  and  heroine,  next-door  neighbours  in  the  same  boreen, 
are  children  together,  Jimmy's  special  care  as  a  boy  being  to 
see  that  Nelly  does  not  fall  into  the  bog- hole, 

So  ugly  and  black, 
Wid  its  sides  cut  wall-sthraight  wid  the  spade,  an'  the  wather  like  midnight 

below, 
Lyin'  far  out  of  reach. 

They  grow  up  together,  but  just  as  Jimmy  becomes  aware  of 
what  is  stirring  in  his  heart  a  handsome,  gaudy  young  soldier 
steps  round  the  end  of  the  turf-stack,  '  and  himself  was  just 
Felix  Magrath  comin'  home  to  his  father's  on  leave.'  This  is 
the  first  breath  of  the  ill-wind  of  Fate.  Felix  is  pleasant, 
plausible,  full  of  stirring  stories  of  strange  lands  '  where  the 
curiousist  things  ye  could  think  do  be  plenty  as  turf-sods  in 
stacks,'  and  of  course  Nell  listens  to  him,  *  small  blame  to 
her ; '  and  equally  of  course  Jimmy  thinks  of  provoking  him  to 
a  quarrel,  being  cursed  by  all  the  torments  of  jealousy.  But, 


JANE  BARLOW  431 

though  he  believes  his  superior  strength  would  give  him  the 
victory,  Jimmy  puts  the  temptation  from  him,  and  determines 
to  sacrifice  his  own  happiness  to  Nelly's.  And  at  this  very 
moment  Felix  is  bidding  farewell  to  her,  for  it  turns  out  he  has 
a  wife  at  the  Curragh  ;  and  in  the  brief  scene  that  follows  he 
takes  a  step  back,  forgetting  the  bog-hole  is  near  at  hand. 
When  Jimmy  comes  up,  he  is  only  in  time  to  save  Nelly  from 
flinging  herself  into  the  black  waters  after  her  false  lover,  and 
when  she  faints,  and  recovers  consciousness  only  to  go  out  of 
her  mind,  it  is  clear  enough  to  the  villagers  now  arriving  on  the 
scene  that  Jimmy  has  murdered  his  rival  before  his  sweet- 
heart's eyes :  a  conclusion  supported  by  the  girl's  ravings. 
How  he  rises  to  the  height  of  this  last  fierce  trial  I  leave  the 
reader  to  ascertain  for  himself. 

Another  portion  of  Miss  Barlow's  work  falls  into  a  different 
category,  and  though  not  so  obviously  Irish  in  subject  is 
excellent  in  quality,  and  treats  of  a  subject  which  probably 
finds  its  best  expression  in  Celtic  lands— that  of  fairy  lore. 
This  is  a  branch  of  study  which  has  of  late  years  attracted  the 
attention  of  all  lovers  of  literature,  as  distinguished  from 
literary  form.  Together  with  its  kindred  sciences  of  mythology 
and  folklore,  it  provides  us  with  the  nearest  glimpses  now 
obtainable  of  the  primitive  imagination  of  man,  upon  which 
almost  all  imaginative  literature,  even  the  greatest,  is  primarily 
founded.  We  need  not — cannot— be  faithless  to  or  forgetful  of 
1  the  glory  that  was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome/ 
the  light  wherewith  Dante  illumined  the  darkness  of  ages,  the 

*  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth,'  the  triumphal  march-music 
of  French  and  German  literature ;  yet  often  from  the  crambe 
repetita  of  classical  learning,  from  its  meticulous  criticism,  from 
the  stifling  atmosphere  of  over-culture,   from   the  mists  and 
mire  of  decadence,  one  turns  with  relief  to  the  broad  skies  and 
the  fresh   breezes  of  a  simpler  age  and   a  less  sophisticated 
humanity,  in  whose  root-thoughts  are  the  germs  of  later  and 
more  gorgeous  imaginings.     So  Miss  Barlow  turns  from  the 

*  Batrachomyomachia  '  to  *  The  End  of  Elfmtown,'  and  gives  us  a 
delightful  glimpse  of  fairyland,  of  the  troubles  which  descended 


432  BOOK   V 


on  the  race  of  the  elves,  of  the  passing  of  Oberon,  and  the 
twilight  of  the  lesser  gods. 

GEORGE  A.  GREENE. 

Miss  Jane  Barlow,  born  in  Clontarf,  County  Dublin,  is  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  J.  W.  Barlow,  Vice-Provost  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
a  well-known  writer  of  philosophical  and  historical  works.  She  has 
spent  most  of  her  life  at  Raheny  in  the  same  county,  and  has  published  in 
verse:  BOGLAND  STUDIES  (Fisher  Unwin,  1891  ;  enlarged  edition,  Hodder 
&  Stoughton,  1893) »  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  FROGS  AND  MICE — a  metrical 
version  of  the  '  Batrachomyomachia '  (Methuen,  1894);  THE  END  OF 
ELFINTOWN  (Macmillan,  1894) ;  besides  scattered  poems  in  various 
periodicals,  among  which  may  be  mentioned  TERENCE  MACRAN  :  A  HEDGE- 
SCHOOL  STUDY,  a  story  in  verse  in  the  style  and  metre  of  BOGLAND 
STUDIES,  originally  published  in  The  Journal  of  Education  for  May,  1894, 
and  since  reprinted  in  ESSAYS  AND  MOCK  ESSAYS  (Arnold).  Miss  Barlow's 
prose  works  are  more  numerous,  and  include  :  IRISH  IDYLLS  (Hodder 
&  Stoughton,  1892) ;  KERRIGAN'S  QUALITY  (same  publishers,  1894)  ; 
STRANGERS  AT  LISCONNEL — a  second  series  of  Irish  Idylls  (same 
publishers,  1895)  '•>  MAUREEN'S  FAIRING  and  MRS.  MARTIN'S  COMPANY, 
both  in  the  'Iris  Library '  (Dent,  1895  and  1896);  A  CREEL  OF  IRISH 
STORIES  (Methuen,  1897)  ;  and  FROM  THE  EAST  UNTO  THE  WEST  (same 
publishers,  1898).  Miss  Barlow  is  a  scholar  and  a  great  reader,  preferring 
books  that  have  become  classics  to  mere  novelties,  and  makes  music  her 
chief  recreation. 

MISTHER  DENIS'S  RETURN 
FROM  'TH'  OULD  MASTER' 

AN'  the  thought  of  us  each  was  the  boat  ;  och,  however'd  she  stand 
it  at  all, 

If  she'd  started  an  hour  or  two  back,  an'  been  caught  in  the  thick 
o'  that  squall  ? 

Sure,  it's  lost  she  was,  barrin'  by  luck  it  so  chanced  she'd  run  under 
the  lee 

O'  Point  Bertragh  or  Irish  Lonane  ;  an'  'twas  liker  the  crathurs 
'udbe 

Crossin'  yonder  the  open,  wid  never  a  shelter,  but  waves  far  an' 
wide 

Rowlin'  one  on  the  other  till  ye'd  seem  at  the  feet  of  a  mad  moun- 
tain-side. 


JANE  BARLOW  433 


An'  the  best  we  could  hope  was  they'd  seen  that  the  weathered  be 

turnin'  out  quare, 
An'  might,  happen,  ha'  settled  they  wouldn't  come  over,  but  bide 

where  they  were. 
Yet,  begorrah  !  'twould  be  the  quare  weather  entirely,  as  some  of 

us  said, 
That  'ud  put  Misther  Denis  off  aught  that  he'd  fairly  tuk  into  his 

head. 
Thin  Tim  Duigan  sez  :   *  Arrah,  lads,  whist  !  afther  sailin'  thro' 

oceans  o'  say 
Don't  tell  me  he's  naught  better  to  do  than  get  dhrowned  in  our 

dhrop  of  a  bay.' 
An'  the  words  were  scarce  out  of  his  mouth,  whin  hard  by,  thro'  a 

dhrift  o'  the  haze, 
The  ould  boat  we  beheld  sthrivin'  on  in  the  storm — och,  the  yell  we 

did  raise  ! 
An'  it's  little  we  yelled  for,  bedad  !  for  next  instant  there  under 

our  eyes, 
Not  a  couple  o'  perch  from  the  pier-end,  th'  ould  baste  she  must 

take  an'  capsize. 

Och  !  small  blame  to  thim  all  if  we'd  never  seen  sight  of  a  one  o' 

thim  more, 
Wid  the  waves  thumpin'  thuds  where  they  fell,  like  the  butt-ends 

o'  beams  on  a  door  ; 
An'  the  black  hollows  whirlin'  between,  an'  the  dhrift  flyin'  over 

thim  thick, 
'S  if  the  Divil  had  melted  •  down  Hell,  an'  was  stirrin'  it  up  wid  a 

stick. 
But   it   happint   the   wave   that    they  met   wid   was   flounderin' 

sthraight  to  the  strand, 
An'  just  swep'  thim  up  nate  on  its  way,  till  it  set  thim  down  safe 

where  the  sand 
Isn't  wet  twice  a  twelvemonth,  no  hurt  on  thim  all,  on'y  dhrippin' 

an'  dazed. 
And  one  come  to  his  feet  nigh  me  door,  where  that  mornin'  me 

heifer  had  grazed, 
An',  bedad !  'twas  himself,  Misther  Denis,  stood  blinkin'  and  shakin' 

the  wet 

F  F 


434  BOOK    V 


From  his  hair  :  '  Hullo,  Connor ! '  sez  he,  '  is  it  you,  man  ? '     He'd 

never  forget 
One  he'd  known.     But  I'd  hardly  got  hould  of  his  hand,  an'  was 

wishin'  him  joy, 
Whin,  worse  luck,  he  looked  round  an'  he  spied  Widdy  Sullivan's 

imp  of  a  boy 
That  a  wave  had  tuk  off  of  his  feet,  an'  was  floatin'  away  from  the 

beach, 
An'  he  screechin'  an'  sthretchin'  his  arms  to  be  saved,  but  no  help 

was  in  reach. 
An'  as  soon  as  the  young  master  he  seen  it,  he  caught  his  hand 

out  o'  me  own  : 
'  Now,  stana  clear,  man,'  sez  he  ;  '  would  ye  have  me  be  lavin'  the 

lad  there  to  dhrown  ? ' 
An'  wid  that  he  throd  knee-deep  in  foam-swirls.     Ochone  !  but  he 

gev  us  the  slip, 
Runnin'  sheer  down  the   black  throat  o'  Death,  an'  he  just  afther 

'scapin'  its  grip  ; 
For  the  wild  says  come  flappin'  an'  boomin'  an'  smotherin'  o'er 

him,  an'  back 
In  the  lap  o'  their  ragin'  they  swep'  him  as  light  as  a  wisp  o'  brown 

wrack. 
An'  they  poundin'  the  rocks  like  sledge-hammers,  an'  clatterin'  the 

shingle  like  chains  ; 
Ne'er  the  live  sowl  they'd  let  from  their  hould  till  they'd  choked 

him  or  bet  out  his  brains, 
Sure  an'  certin.     And  in  swung  a  wave  wid  its  welthers  o'  wather 

that  lept 
Wid  the  roar  of  a  lion  as  it  come,  an'  hissed  low  like  a  snake  as  it 

crept 
To  its  edge,  where  it  tossed  thim,  the  both  o'  them.     Och  !  an'  the 

little  spalpeen 
Misther  Denis  had  gript  be  the  collar,  he  jumped  up  the  first 

thing  we  seen, 
While  young  master  lay  still — not  a  stir — he  was  stunned  wid  a 

crack  on  the  head — 
Just  a  flutter  o'  life  at  his  heart — but  it's  kilt  he  was,  kilt  on  us 

dead. 


JANE  BARLOW  435 

THE  FLITTING  OF  THE  FAIRIES 

From  THE  END  OF  ELFINTOWN 


THEN  Oberon  spake  the  word  of  might 
That  set  the  enchanted  cars  in  sight  ; 
But  lore  I  lack  to  tell  aright 

Where  these  had  waited  hidden. 
Perchance  the  clear  airs  round  us  rolled 
In  secret  cells  did  them  enfold, 
Like  evening  dew  that  none  behold 

Till  to  the  sward  'tis  slidden. 

And  who  can  say  what  wizardise 

Had  fashioned  them  in  marvellous  wise, 

And  given  them  power  to  stoop  and  rise 

More  high  than  thought  hath  travelled  ? 
Somewhat  of  cloud  their  frames  consist, 
But  more  of  meteor's  luminous  mist. 
All  girt  with  strands  of  seven-hued  twist 

From  rainbow's  verge  unravelled. 

'T  is  said,  and  I  believe  it  well, 
That  whoso  mounts  their  magic  selle, 
Goes,  if  he  list,  invisible 

Beneath  the  broadest  noonlight ; 
That  virtue  comes  of  Faery-fern, 
Lone-lived  where  hill-slopes  starward  turn 
Thro'  frore  night  hours  that  bid  it  burn 

Flame-fronded  in  the  moonlight ; 

For  this  holds  true — too  true,  alas  ! 
The  sky  that  eve  was  clear  as  glass, 
Yet  no  man  saw  the  Faeries  pass 

Where  azure  pathways  glisten  ; 
And  true  it  is — too  true,  ay  me — 
That  nevermore  on  lawn  or  lea 
Shall  mortal  man  a  Faery  see, 

Though  long  he  look  and  listen. 

F  F  2 


436  BOOK   V 


Only  the  twilit  woods  among 

A  wild-winged  breeze  hath  sometimes  flung 

Dim  echoes  borne  from  strains  soft-sung 

Beyond  sky-reaches  hollow  ; 
Still  further,  fainter  up  the  height, 
Receding  past  the  deep-zoned  night — 
Far  cnant  of  Fays  who  lead  that  flight, 

Faint  call  of  Fays  who  follow  : 

(Fays  following.'}     Red-rose  mists  o'erdrift 

Moth-moon's  glimmering  white, 
Lit  by  sheen-silled  west 
Barred  with  fiery  bar  ; 
Fleeting,  following  swift, 
Whither  across  the  night 
Seek  we  bourne  of  rest  ? 

(Fays  leading.}     Afar. 

(Fays  following.}     Vailing  crest  on  crest 

Down  the  shadowy  height, 
Earth  with  shores  and  seas 
Dropt,  a  dwindling  gleam. 
Dusk,  and  bowery  nest, 
Dawn,  and  dells  dew-bright, 
What  shall  bide  of  these? 

(Fays  leading.}    A  dream. 

(Fays  following}     Fled,  ah  !  fled,  our  sight. 
Yea,  but  thrills  of  fire 
Throbbed  adown  yon  deep, 
Faint  and  very  far 
Who  shall  rede  aright  ? 
Say,  what  wafts  us  nigher, 
Beckoning  up  the  steep  ? 

(Fays  leading}     A  star. 

(Fays  following}     List,  a  star  !  a  star  ! 

Oh,  our  goal  of  light  ! 

Yet  the  winged  shades  sweep, 

Yet  the  void  looms  vast. 


JANE  BARLOW  437 


Weary  our  wild  dreams  are  : 
When  shall  cease  our  flight 
Soft  on  shores  of  sleep  ? 
(Fays  leading.}    At  last. 


DORA   SIGERSON   (MRS.   CLEMENT   SHORTER) 

THAT  divine  discontent  with  the  colourless  realisms  and  the 
banalities  of  life  which  overcomes  at  uncertain  periods  the 
soul  of  every  poet,  has  been  much  with  Miss  Sigerson  ;  but 
it  exhibits  itself  more  in  her  earlier  and  less  mature  than  in  her 
later  and  more  objective  poems.  It  is  not  the  joy  bells  of 
Nature,  but  its  funeral  sounds  that  strike  first  upon  her  listen- 
ing ear.  Her  earliest  volume  is  tinged  with  a  profound 
melancholy — a  melancholy  which  to  some  extent  runs  through 
her  later  ones  also,  though  in  them  it  does  not  obtrude  nor 
convey  the  same  feeling  of  recurrent  depression.  She  weighs 
life  in  her  balances,  and  finds  it  wanting.  The  very  Hill  of 
Fame,  upon  which  life's  fortunate  ones  are  crowned,  raises  in 
her  only  a  shudder — for  is  it  not  built  upon  the  bones  of 
the  dead  ?  The  shadows  of  the  unfathomed  mysteries  of  life 
and  death  hang  heavily  over  all. 

White  rose  must  die,  all  in  the  youth  and  beauty  of  the  year. 

That  is  the  recurrent  burden  of  many  of  her  songs,  the  pre- 
vailing note  of  her  earlier  music.  Life  as  it  unfolds  itself  is 
cruelty  and  disillusion.  No  Prince  Charming  can  ever  recover 
for  her  her  fairy-land.  Everything  must  end  in  death,  and  the 
shadow  feared  of  man  is  not  to  be  got  rid  of. 

So  for  the  luxury  of  the  flesh,  wrap  it  in  fur  of  fox,  that  it  be  warm, 

In  the  bear's  coat,  sheltering  its  nakedness  from  storm  ; 

Give  wine  for  its  hot  veins,  fame  for  its  throne,  and  laughter  for  its  lips, 

All  ends  in  one  eclipse. 

Sunshine  or  snows, 

We  gain  a  grave,  and  afterwards— God  knows  I 


438  BOOK   V 


The  barren  and  meaningless  conventionalities  of  life 
disgust  her.  They  help  to  make  existence  less  endurable  than 
it  might  be  if  dealt  with  in  a  more  rational  manner.  Under 
the  constant  fret  of  petty  conventionalities  *  the  world  becomes 
a  weariness,  life's  current  choked  with  straws,' and  she  longs 
for  a  man's  freedom  to  leave  it  all  behind,  and  come  face  to 
face  with  Nature  '  when  the  sky  is  black  with  thunder  and  the 
sea  is  white  with  foam.'  But  the  actualities  of  life  tie  her 
down,  fetter  her,  disappoint  her,  nor  can  she  claim  the  personal 
freedom  of  action  that  is  a  man's  birthright. 

Alas  !  to  be  a  woman,  and  a  nomad's  heart  in  me. 

Of  the  poet,  of  the  dreamer  to  whom  his  dream  is  the  one 
reality  of  earth,  whose  bubble  is  blown  only  to  be  burst,  and 
who  yet  continues  to  dream  because  he  can  do  naught  else, 
she  sings  with  much  of  the  insight  of  a  kindred  nature. 

Alone  among  his  kind  he  stands  alone, 

Torn  by  the  passions  of  his  own  sad  heart, 
Stoned  by  continual  wreckage  of  his  dr earns , 
He  in  the  crowd  for  ever  is  apart. 

Is  not  this  the  very  language  of  De   Musset  in  his  glorious 
address  to  his  fellow  poet  Lamartine  ? 

Desir,  crainte,  colere,  inquietude,  ennui, 
Tout  passe  et  disparait,  tout  est  fantome  en  lui. 
Son  miserable  coeur  est  fait  de  telle  sorte 
Qtfilfaut  incessamment  qu'une  mine  en  sorte. 

This  feeling  of  depression  however  is  suffused  with,  and  to 
some  extent  counteracted  by,  a  strong  religious  faith  and  a 
belief  in  the  soul's  immortality.  In  this  respect  she  has  the 
closest  affinities  with  her  friends  Katharine  Tynan  and  Miss 
Furlong,  and  one  of  her  most  powerful  poems  is  that  in  which, 
in  her  last  volume,  she  describes  the  disastrous  influence  of 
an  Agnostic  husband  upon  the  heart  of  a  believing  girl  fresh 
from  her  convent. 

In  her  second  and  third  volumes  Miss  Sigerson  (now 
Mrs.  Clement  Shorter)  has  struck  out  into  new  paths,  and 


DORA   S1GERSON  439 


largely  sought  for  her  inspiration  outside  of  her  own  feelings 
and  experience.  She  has  turned  herself  with  signal  success  to 
ballad-poetry,  and  in  many  of  her  pieces,  especially  in  her 
second  volume,  she  has  sought  inspiration  from  Irish  motives 
and  dealt  with  Irish  superstitions.  Her  very  absence  from 
Ireland  has  made  her  —  a  phenomenon  which  we  may  often 
witness  —  more  Irish  than  if  she  had  never  left  it,  and  we  can 
overhear  in  more  than  one  poem  the  cry  of  the  Connacht 
fiddler  : 

U\n  ri)o  ftAojne 


As  a  ballad-writer  Mrs.  Shorter  has  been  successful,  chiefly 
because  she  is  unconventional.  Almost  all  English  ballads 
more  or  less  consciously  imitate  those  splendid  folk-tales  in 
verse  that  are  the  glory  of  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland  ;  but  the 
tricks  and  turns  of  speech  and  thought  that  are  in  them  so 
delightful,  because  they  are  so  natural,  become  at  the  present 
moment  affectation  or  worse,  and  no  skill  can  atone  for  a 
conscious  unreality  of  style  or  expression.  Mrs.  Shorter's 
merit  is  simplicity  combined  with  directness,  and  the  ballads 
in  her  second  volume  are  not  mere  tales  in  verse,  but  have 
almost  all  of  them  an  underlying  motif,  and  exemplify  truths 
of  deep  psychical  import.  In  her  later  ballads  the  mere  story 
or  tale  itself  seems  to  have  attracted  her  to  versification,  which, 
however  skilfully  done,  does  not,  I  think,  always  possess  the 
interest  of  her  earlier  work,  in  which  the  tale  evidently  counted 
for  less  than  the  eternal  truth  or  feeling  which  it  exemplified. 
DOUGLAS  HYDE  (AN  CRAOIBHIN). 

Mrs.  Clement  Shorter  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  Dr.  George  Sigerson, 
F.  R.U.I,  (q.v.),  and  was  born  in  Dublin.  Her  marriage  with  Mr. 
Clement  Shorter,  then  editor  of  The  Illustrated  London  News%  took  place 
in  1895.  Her  mother,  Mrs.  Hester  Sigerson,  was  author  of  a  successful 
novel,  A  RUINED  RACE,  and  of  poems  which  have  appeared  in  various 
anthologies.  Mrs.  Shorter's  books  are  :  VERSES,  by  Dora  Sigerson,  1893; 
THE  FAIRY  CHANGELING,  by  Dora  Sigerson  (Mrs.  Clement  Shorter), 
1898  ;  BALLADS  AND  POEMS,  by  Dora  Sigerson  (Mrs.  Clement  Shorter), 
1899. 


440  BOOK   V 


CEAN  Duv  DEELISH 

CEAN  DUV  DEELISH,  beside  the  sea 
I  stand  and  stretch  my  hands  to  thee 

Across  the  world. 
The  riderless  horses  race  to  shore 
With  thundering  hoofs  and  shuddering,  hoar, 

Blown  manes  uncurled. 

Cean  duv  deelish,  I  cry  to  thee 
Beyond  the  world,  beneath  the  sea, 

Thou  being  dead. 

Where  hast  thou  hidden  from  the  beat 
Of  crushing  hoofs  and  tearing  feet 

Thy  dear  black  head  ? 

Cean  duv  deelish,  'tis  hard  to  pray 
With  breaking  heart  from  day  to  day, 

And  no  reply  ; 

When  the  passionate  challenge  of  sky  is  cast 
In  the  teeth  of  the  sea  and  an  angry  blast 

Goes  by. 

God  bless  the  woman,  whoever  she  be, 
From  the  tossing  waves  will  recover  thee 

And  lashing  wind. 

Who  will  take  thee  out  of  the  wind  and  storm, 
Dry  thy  wet  face  on  her  bosom  warm 

And  lips  so  kind  ? 

I  not  to  know  !     It  is  hard  to  pray, 

But  I  shall  for  this  woman  from  day  to  day. 

*  Comfort  my  dead, 

The  sport  of  the  winds  and  the  play  of  the  sea. 
I  loved  thee  too  well  for  this  thing  to  be, 

O  dear  black  head  ! 

THE  WIND  ON  THE  HILLS 

Go  not  to  the  hills  of  Erin 
When  the  night  winds  are  about  ; 

Put  up  your  bar  and  shutter, 
And  so  keep  the  danger  out. 


DORA   SIGERSON  441 

For  the  good-folk  whirl  within  it, 

And  they  pull  you  by  the  hand, 
And  they  push  you  on  the  shoulder, 

Till  you  move  to  their  command. 

And  lo  !  you  have  forgotten 

What  you  have  known  of  tears, 
And  you  will  not  remember 

That  the  world  goes  full  of  years  ; 

A  year  there  is  a  lifetime, 

And  a  second  but  a  day  ; 
And  an  older  world  will  meet  you 

Each  morn  you  come  away. 

Your  wife  grows  old  with  weeping, 

And  your  children  one  by  one 
Grow  grey  with  nights  of  watching, 

Before  your  dance  is  done. 

And  it  will  chance  some  morning 

You  will  come  home  no  more  ; 
Your  wife  sees  but  a  withered  leaf 

In  the  wind  about  the  door. 

And  your  children  will  inherit 

The  unrest  of  the  wind ; 
They  shall  seek  some  face  elusive, 

And  some  land  they  never  find. 

When  the  wind  is  loud,  they  sighing 

Go  with  hearts  unsatisfied, 
For  some  joy  beyond  remembrance, 

For  some  memory  denied. 

And  all  your  children's  children, 

They  cannot  sleep  or  rest, 
When  the  wind  is  out  in  Erin 

And  the  sun  is  in  the  West. 


442  BOOK   V 


A  ROSE  WILL  FADE 

You  were  always  a  dreamer,  Rose  —  red  Rose, 
As  you  swung  on  your  perfumed  spray, 

Swinging,  and  all  the  world  was  true, 

Swaying,  what  did  it  trouble  you  ? 
A  rose  will  fade  in  a  day. 

Why  did  you  smile  to  his  face,  red  Rose, 

As  he  whistled  across  your  way  ? 
And  all  the  world  went  mad  for  you, 
All  the  world  it  knelt  to  woo. 

A  rose  will  bloom  in  a  day. 

I  gather  your  petals,  Rose — red  Rose, 

The  petals  he  threw  away. 
And  all  the  world  derided  you  ; 
Ah  !  the  world,  how  well  it  knew 

A  rose  will  fade  in  a  day  ! 

THE  ONE  FORGOTTEN 

There  is  a  belief  in  some  parts  of  Ireland  that  the  dead  are  allowed 
to  return  to  earth  on  November  2  (All  Souls'  Night),  and  the  peasantry 
leave  food  and  fire  for  their  comfort,  and  set  a  chair  by  the  hearth  for  their 
resting  before  they  themselves  retire  to  bed. 

A  SPIRIT  speeding  down  on  All  Souls'  Eve 

From  the  wide  gates  of  that  mysterious  shore 
Where  sleep  the  dead,  sung  softly  and  yet  sweet. 

'  So  gay  a  wind  was  never  heard  before,5 
The  old  man  said,  and  listened  by  the  fire  ; 

And,  '  'Tis  the  souls  that  pass  us  on  their  way,' 
The  young  maids  whispered,  clinging  side  by  side — 

So  left  their  glowing  nuts  awhile  to  pray. 

Still  the  pale  spirit,  singing  through  the  night, 
Came  to  this  window,  looking  from  the  dark 

Into  the  room  ;  then  passing  to  the  door 
Where  crouched  the  whining  dog,  afraid  to  bark, 


DORA    SIGERSON  443 


Tapped  gently  without  answer,  pressed  the  latch, 
Pushed  softly  open,  and  then  tapped  once  more. 

The  maidens  cried,  when  seeking  for  the  ring, 
*  How  strange  a  wind  is  blowing  on  the  door  ! ' 

And  said  the  old  man,  crouching  to  the  fire  : 

'  Draw  close  your  chairs,  for  colder  falls  the  night ; 
Push  fast  the  door,  and  pull  the  curtains  to, 

For  it  is  dreary  in  the  moon's  pale  light.' 
And  then  his  daughter's  daughter  with  her  hand 

Passed  over  salt  and  clay  to  touch  the  ring, 
Said  low  :  '  The  old  need  fire,  but  ah  !  the  young 

Have  that  within  their  hearts  to  flame  and  sting.' 

And  then  the  spirit,  moving  from  her  place, 

Touched  there  a  shoulder,  whispered  in  each  ear, 
Bent  by  the  old  man,  nodding  in  his  chair, 

But  no  one  heeded  her,  or  seemed  to  hear. 
Then  crew  the  black  cock,  and  so,  weeping  sore, 

She  went  alone  into  the  night  again  ; 
And  said  the  greybeard,  reaching  for  his  glass, 

'  How  sad  a  wind  blows  on  the  window-pane  ! ' 

And  then  from  dreaming  the  long  dreams  of  age 

He  woke,  remembering,  and  let  fall  a  tear : 
'  Alas  !  I  have  forgot—  and  have  you  gone  ? — 

I  set  no  chair  to  welcome  you,  my  dear.' 
And  said  the  maidens,  laughing  in  their  play  : 

'  How  he  goes  groaning,  wrinkle-faced  and  hoar. 
He  is  so  old,  and  angry  with  his  age  — 

Hush  !  hear  the  banshee  sobbing  past  the  door.' 

ALL'  SOULS'  NIGHT 

0  MOTHER,  mother,  I  swept  the  hearth,  I  set  his  chair  and  the 

white  board  spread, 

1  prayed  for  his  coming  to  our  kind  Lady  when  Death's  sad  doors 

would  let  out  the  dead  ; 
A  strange  wind  rattled  the  window-pane,  and  down  the  lane  a  dog 

howled  on  ; 
I  called  his  name,  and  the  candle  flame  burnt  dim,  pressed  a  hand 

the  door-latch  upon. 


444  BOOK    V 


Deelish  !  Deelish  !  my  woe  for  ever  that  I  could  not  sever  coward 

flesh  from  fear. 
I  called  his  name,  and  the  pale  Ghost  came  ;  but  I  was  afraid  to 

meet  my  dear. 

0  mother,  mother,  in  tears  I  checked  the  sad  hours  past  of  the 

year  that's  o'er, 
Till  by  God's  grace  I  might  see  his  face  and  hear  the  sound  of  his 

voice  once  more  ; 
The  chair  I  set  from  the  cold  and  wet,  he  took  when  he  came  from 

unknown  skies 
Of  the  land  of  the  dead,  on  my  bent  brown  head  I  felt  the  reproach 

of  his  saddened  eyes  ; 

1  closed  my  lids  on  my  heart's  desire,  crouched  by  the  fire,  my 

voice  was  dumb  : 
At  my  clean-swept  hearth  he  had  no  mirth,  and  at  my  table  he 

broke  no  crumb. 
Deelish  !  Deelish  !  my  woe  for  ever  that  I  could  not  sever  coward 

flesh  from  fear. 
His  chair  put  aside  when  the  young  cock  cried,  and  I  was  afraid 

to  meet  my  dear. 


A  BALLAD  OF  MARJORIE 

'  WHAT  ails  you  that  you  look  so  pale, 

O  fisher  of  the  sea?' 
'  'Tis  for  a  mournful  tale  I  own, 

Fair  maiden  Marjorie.' 

*  What  is  the  dreary  tale  to  tell, 

0  toiler  of  the  sea  ? ' 

'  I  cast  my  net  into  the  waves, 
Sweet  maiden  Marjorie. 

'  I  cast  my  net  into  the  tide 
Before  I  made  for  home  : 
Too  heavy  for  my  hands  to  raise, 

1  drew  it  through  the  foam.' 


DORA   SIGERSON  445 

What  saw  you  that  you  look  so  pale, 

Sad  searcher  of  the  sea  ? ' 
A  dead  man's  body  from  the  deep 

My  haul  had  brought  to  me  ! ' 

'  And  was  he  young,  and  was  he  fair  ? ' 

'  Oh,  cruel  to  behold  ! 
In  his  white  face  the  joy  of  life 

Not  yet  was  grown  a-cold.' 

'  Oh,  pale  you  are,  and  full  of  prayer 

For  one  who  sails  the  sea.' 
Because  the  dead  looked  up  and  spoke, 
Poor  maiden  Marjorie.5 

'What  said  he,  that  you  seem  so  sad, 

O  fisher  of  the  sea  ? ' 
(Alack  !  I  know  it  was  my  love, 

Who  fain  would  speak  to  me  !) 

'  He  said  :  "  Beware  a  woman's  mouth — 

A  rose  that  bears  a  thorn."  ' 
1  Ah,  me  !  these  lips  shall  smile  no  more 

That  gave  my  lover  scorn.' 

'  He  said  :  "  Beware  a  woman's  eyes  ; 
They  pierce  you  with  their  death." ' 

*  Then  falling  tears  shall  make  them  blind 

That  robbed  my  dear  of  breath.' 

'  He  said  :  "  Beware  a  woman's  hair— 

A  serpent's  coil  of  gold."  ' 
'  Then  will  I  shear  the  cruel  locks 

That  crushed  him  in  their  fold.' 

'  He  said  :  "  Beware  a  woman's  heart 
As  you  would  shun  the  reef." ' 

*  So  let  it  break  within  my  breast, 

And  perish  of  my  grief.' 


446  BOOK   V 


1  He  raised  his  hands  ;  a  woman's  name 

Thrice  bitterly  he  cried. 
My  net  had  parted  with  the  strain  ; 

He  vanished  in  the  tide.' 

'  A  woman's  name  !     What  name  but  mine, 

O  fisher  of  the  sea  ? ' 
'A  woman's  name,  but  not  your  name, 

Poor  maiden  Marjorie.' 


STEPHEN   LUCIUS   GWYNN 

BORN  1865  in  the  County  Donegal,  a  son  of  the  Rev.  John 
Gwynn,  Dean  of  Raphoe,  and  now  Regius  Professor  of  Divinity 
in  Dublin  University.  By  the  mother's  side  Mr,  Gwynn  is  a 
grandson  of  Smith  O'Brien.  He  was  educated  at  St.  Columba's 
College  and  at  Oxford.  Mr.  Gwynn's  poems  have  appeared  in 
various  periodicals,  chiefly  in  The  Spectator.  He  has  published 
one  novel,  THE  REPENTANCE  OF  A  PRIVATE  SECRETARY  (1898), 
and  an  admirable  book  on  touring  in  the  North  of  Ireland, 
HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS  IN  ANTRIM  AND  DONEGAL  (1899). 

OUT  IN  THE  DARK 

OH,  up  the  brae,  and  up  and  up,  beyont  the  fairy  thorn, 

It's  there  they  hae  my  baby  laid,  that  died  when  he  was  born. 

Afore  the  priest  could  christen  him  to  save  his  soul,  he  died  ; 

It  never  lived  at  all,  they  said — 'twas  livin'  in  my  side. 

For  many  a  day  an'  many  a  night,  an'  weary  night  and  day, 

I  kent  him  livin'  at  my  heart,  I  carena  what  they  say. 

For  many  a  day  an'  many  a  night  I  wearied  o'  unrest, 

But  now  I'm  sore  to  hae  my  wean  back  hidden  in  my  breast. 

He'll  sure  be  thinkin'  long  for  me,  an'  wearyin'  his  lone 

Up  in  thon  corner  by  the  whins  wi'  neither  cross  nor  stone  ; 

Ay,  tho'  I'd  died  wi'  him  itself,  they  wouldna  let  us  be — 

The  corner  o'  a  field  for  him,  the  holy  ground  for  me  ; 

The  poor,  wee,  helpless,  Christless  wean— Och  !  Mary,  Mother  mild, 

Sure,  ye  were  unbaptised  yourseF,  have  pity  on  a  child. 


STEPHEN  LUCIUS  GWYNN  447 

Th'  are  many  a  wean  that  lies  wi'  him,  and  none  that  got  a  name, 

Th'  are  many  a  wife,  hard  put  till  it,  was  glad  that  dead  they  came  ; 

Ay,  many  a  man  that  scarcely  minds  a  child  o'  his  lies  there  ; 

But,  och  !  it's  cruel  hard  to  quit  the  first  you'd  ever  bear. 

The  graves  are  all  that  tiny  that  they'd  hardly  raise  a  mound, 

And  couples  o'  a  Sunday  do  be  coortin'  on  thon  ground, 

An'  th'  are  none  that  thinks  upon  them  ;  but  my  heart'll  be  there 

still, 

On  the  sod  among  the  bracken  an'  the  whins  upon  the  hill. 
I'd  be  feared  to  come  o'  night  there,  for  the  hill  is  fairy  ground, 
But  th'  are,  maybe,  more  nor  fairies  dancin'  in  the  fairy  round — 
Och,  an'  if  I  only  thought  it !  sure,  I'd  let  them  do  their  worst, 
An'  I'd  go  to  see  my  baby,  tho'  I  be  to  be  accursed. 
But  I'll  never  reach  my  wean  now,  neither  here  nor  in  the  sod, 
An'  I'm  betther  wi'  the  Christians  an'  the  souls  that's  saved  for 

God;— 

Och,  to  feel  his  fingers  on  me  an'  to  clasp  him  when  he  smiled  ! 
Sure,  ye'd  think  there'd  be  one  heaven  for  the  mother  an'  the  child. 

MATER  SEVERA 

WHERE  the  huge  Atlantic  swings  heavy  water  eastward, 
Ireland,  square  to  meet  it,  shoulders  off  the  seas  ; 

Wild  are  all  her  coasts  with  stress  of  cliff  and  billow, 
On  her  northern  moorland  is  little  sheltered  ease. 

Well  is  with  the  salmon,  ranger  of  her  rivers  : 
Well  is  with  the  mackerel  shoaling  in  each  bay, 

Dear  is  all  the  land  to  the  lonely  snipe  and  curlew  : 
Ay,  but  for  its  manfolk  !  a  bitter  lot  have  they. 

Thankless  is  the  soil  :  men  trench,  and  delve,  and  labour 
Black  and  spongy  peat  amid  barren  knowes  of  stone  : 

Then  to  win  a  living  overseas  they  travel, 

And  their  women  gather,  if  God  pleases,  what  was  sown. 

Harvesters,  a-homing  from  the  golden  tilth  of  England, 
Where  they  sweat  to  cope  with  increase  of  teeming  years, 

Find  too  oft  returning,  sick  with  others'  plenty, 

Sunless  autumn  dank  upon  green  and  spindling  ears. 


448  BOOK   V 


Or  a  tainted  south  wind  brings  upon  the  root-crop 
Stench  of  rotting  fibre  and  green  leaf  turning  black  : 

Famine,  never  distant,  stalks  nearer  now  and  nearer, 
Bids  them  rake  like  crows  amid  mussel-beds  and  wrack. 

Bleak  and  grey  to  man  is  the  countenance  of  Nature  ; 

Bleak  her  soil  below  him,  bleak  her  sky  above  ; 
Wherefore,  then,  by  man  is  her  rare  smile  so  cherished? 

Paid  her  niggard  bounty  with  so  lavish  love  ? 

Not  the  slopes  of  Rhine  with  such  yearning  are  remembered  ; 

Not  your  Kentish  orchards,  not  your  Devon  lanes. 
'Tis  as  though  her  sons  for  that  ungentle  mother 

Knew  a  mother's  tenderness,  felt  a  mother's  pains. 

Many  an  outward-bound,  as  the  ship  heads  under  Tory, 
Clings  with  anguished  eyes  to  the  barren  Fanad  shore. 

Many  a  homeward-bound,  as  they  lift  the  frowning  Foreland, 
Pants  to  leap  the  league  to  his  desolate  Gweedore. 

There  about  the  ways  God's  air  is  free  and  spacious  : 
Warm  are  chimney-corners  there,  warm  the  kindly  heart. 

There  the  soul  of  man  takes  root,  and  through  its  travail 
Grips  the  rocky  anchorage  till  the  life-strings  part. 


FRANCES   WYNNE 

THE  daughter  of  a  Dublin  clergyman  and  author  of  a  small 
volume  of  poems,  entitled  WHISPER  !  (1890),  marked  by  an 
impulsive  tenderness  and  a  natural  grace  of  style.  Her 
powers  both  in  prose  and  in  poetry  were  developing  with  much 
promise  when  her  early  death  occurred  in  1894.  She  had 
married  in  1892  her  cousin  the  Rev.  Henry  Wynne. 

A  LESSON  IN  GEOGRAPHY 

AWAY  from  the  town,  in  the  safe  retreat 
Of  a  rare  old  garden,  sunny  and  sweet, 
Four  little  happy  children  played 
In  and  out  of  the  light  and  shade, 


FRANCES    WYNNE  449 


Through  a  long  summer's  blissful  prime, 

Once  on  a  time. 

Between  the  garden  borders  neat 

The  gravel-walks  stretched  warm  and  wide. 

The  diligent  brown-coated  bees 

Were  ever  astir 

Among  the  roses  and  lavender 

And  the  great  dark  pansies,  yellow-eyed, 

And  the  faint  sweet-peas. 

But  the  children  on  their  tireless  feet 

Flitted  about  in  the  pleasant  heat 

Like  the  butterflies, 

Nor  even  cared  to  stray  outside 

Their  Paradise. 

Round  the  old  garden  was  a  wall ; 

Snapdragons  crowded  along  the  ledge, 

Crimson  and  tall, 

And  in  every  niche  and  crevice  small 

Tiny  mosses  uncurled. 

And  though  the  children  would  often  try, 

And  even  stand  on  tip-toe  to  look, 

They  could  hardly  see  over  the  top  at  all. 

But  there  was  one  corner  not  quite  so  high 

And  above  it,  against  the  farthest  edge 

Of  the  beautiful  sky — 

(The  part  that  was  golden  and  green  and  red 

In  the  evenings,  when  they  were  going  to  bed) — 

A  row  of  poplars  shook  and  shook  ; 

And  the  children  said 

The  poplars  must  be  the  end  of  the  world. 


On  one  of  those  happy  summer  days — 

When  the  garden  borders  were  all  ablaze, 

And  the  children  for  once  felt  too  hot  to  play, 

Though  all  their  lessons  were  done, 

But  lay 

On  the  grass  and  watched  a  delicate  haze 

Quiver  across  the  brooding  blue 

G  G 


450  BOOK   V 


Up  to  the  sun — 

Something  happened  strange  and  new. 

For  a  beggar  pushed  open  the  garden  door 

And  stood  in  the  flooding  sunshine  bright 

Full  in  the  wondering  children's  sight, 

A  pale-faced  woman,  young  and  footsore, 

With  a  baby  boy  on  her  arm. 

Her  ragged  dress  was  all  powdered  grey 

With  the  dust  of  the  road. 

She  fixed  a  long  bewildered  gaze 

On  the  quaint  old  garden  gay, 

Then,  with  a  sudden  smile  and  a  nod, 

She  pointed  in  rapt  delight 

To  the  place  where,  cool  and  shimmering  white, 

The  lilies  shone — 

Touched  the  baby  and  said,  '  Ah  !  plaze, 

If  it  wudn't  do  them  flowers  no  harm, 

Childhren,  will  yiz  give  him  wan 

For  the  love  o'  God  ? ' 

The  children  started,  an  awe-struck  band, 

At  the  stranger  pair. 

Then  the  youngest  ran,  and  with  one  bold  twist 

Of  his  firm  little  wrist 

He  wrenched  a  thick  lily  stem  in  two, 

And  put  it,  with  all  its  blossoms  fair, 

In  the  beggar  baby's  hand. 

'  Ah  !  acushla,'  the  woman  said,  '  there's  few 

In  this  hard  world  like  you. 

I've  a  long,  long  way  to  thravel  yet, 

Beyond  them  high  threes  over  there, 

But  I'll  not  forget 

To  pray  for  you  and  yours  everywhere, 

Never  fear. 

Good  evenin'  an'  God  love  ye,  dear.' 

'She's  gone,'  said  Cissy  ;  'how  queer  she  spoke  !' 
Whispered  Dickie  :  '  O  Tom,  you've  broke 
The  best  lily  :  whatever  shall  you  do 


FRANCES    WYNNE  451 


When  gardener  sees  the  empty  space 

There  where  it  grew, 

And  father  has  to  be  told  ? ' 

*  It  was  for  the  love  of  God,  you  see, 
I  did  it,'  said  Tom  :  '  so  maybe  He 
Won't  let  them  scold.' 

'  We  know  now,'  said  Will, 

*  There's  world  the  other  side  of  that  hill.' 


"MOIRA   O'NEILL' 

THE  poems  of  '  Moira  O'Neill '  have  mostly  made  their  first 
appearance  in  Blackivood  and  The  Spectator,  and  have  quite 
recently  appeared  in  a  small  volume  published  by  Blackwood 
&  Sons.  The  authoress  has  also  published  two  prose  stories — 
THE  ELF-ERRANT  and  AN  EASTER  VACATION.  Her  poetry  is 
Irish  of  the  Irish — tender,  wistful,  hovering  on  the  borderland 
between  tears  and  laughter,  and  as  musical  as  an  old  Gaelic 
melody.  It  springs  straight  from  life,  a  genuine  growth  of  the 
Antrim  glens. 

CORRYMEELA 

OVER  here  in  England  I'm  helpin'  wi'  the  hay, 
An'  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day  ; 
Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an'  sorra  take  the  wheat  ! 
Och  !  Corrymeela  ari  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

There's  a  deep  dumb  river  flowin'  by  beyont  the  heavy  trees, 
This  livin'  air  is  moithered  wi'  the  hummin'  o'  the  bees  ; 
I  wisht  I'd  hear  the  Claddagh  burn  go  runnin'  through  the  heat 
Past  Corrymeela  wf  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

The  people  that's  in  England  is  richer  nor  the  Jews, 
There's  not  the  smallest  young  gossoon  but  thravels  in  his  shoes  ! 
I'd  give  the  pipe  between  me  teeth  to  see  a  barefut  child,       fe 
Och  !  Corrymeela  an1  the  low  south  wind. 

Here's  hands  so  full  o'  money  an'  hearts  so  full  o'  care, 
By  the  luck  o'  love  !  I'd  still  go  light  for  all  1  did  go  bare. 

G  G  2 


452  BOOK   V 


1  God  save  ye,  colleen  dhas,'  I  said  :  the  girl  she  thought  me  wild  ! 
Far  Corrymeela,  art  the  low  south  wind. 

D'ye  mind  me  now,  the  song  at  night  is  mortial  hard  to  raise, 
The  girls  are  heavy  goin'  here,  the  boys  are  ill  to  plase  ; 
When  ones't  I'm  out  this  workin'  hive,  'tis  I'll  be  back  again — 
Aye,  Corrymeela,  in  the  same  soft  rain. 

The  puff  o'  smoke  from  one  ould  roof  before  an  English  Town  ! 
For  a  shaugh  wid  Andy  Feelan  here  I'd  give  a  silver  crown, 
For  a  curl  o'  hair  like  Mollie's  ye'll  ask  the  like  in  vain, 
Sweet  Corrymeeia,  ari  the  same  soft  rain. 

JOHNEEN 

SURE,  he's  five  months,  an'  he's  two  foot  long, 

Baby  Johneen  ; 
Watch  yerself  now,  for  he's  terrible  sthrong, 

Baby  Johneen. 

An'  his  fists  'ill  he  up  if  ye  make  any  slips, 
He  has  finger-ends  like  the  daisy-tips, 
But  he'll  have  ye  attend  to  the  words  of  his  lips, 

Will  Johneen. 

There's  nobody  can  rightly  tell  the  colour  of  his  eyes, 

This  Johneen  ; 
For  they're  partly  o'  the  earth  an'  still  they're  partly  o'  the  skies, 

Like  Johneen. 

So  far  as  he's  thravelled  he's  been  laughin'  all  the  way, 
For  the  little  soul  is  quare  an'  wise,  the  little  heart  is  gay  ; 
An'  he  likes  the  merry  daffodils— he  thinks  they'd  do  to  play 

With  Johneen. 

He'll  sail  a  boat  yet,  if  he  only  has  his  luck, 

Young  Johneen  ; 
For  he  takes  to  the  wather  like  any  little  duck, 

Boy  Johneen ; 

Sure,  them  are  the  hands  now  to  pull  on  a  rope, 
An'  nate  feet  for  walkin  the  deck  on  a  slope, 
But  the  ship  she  must  wait  a  wee  while  yet,  I  hope, 

For  Johneen. 


MOIRA    aNEILL^  453 


For  we  couldn't  do  wantin'  him,  not  just  yet — 
Och,  Johneen, 

'Tis  you  that  are  the  daisy,  an'  you  that  are  the  pet, 
Wee  Johneen. 

Here's  to  your  health,  an:  we'll  dhrink  it  to-night, 

Sldinte  gal,  avic  machree  /  live  an'  do  right ! 

Sldinte  gal  avoumeen  !  may  your  days  be  bright, 
Johneen ! 

LOOKIN'  BACK 

WATHERS  o'  Moyle  an'  the  white  gulls  flyin', 
Since  I  was  near  ye  what  have  I  seen  ? 

Deep  great  seas,  an'  a  sthrong  wind  sighin 
Night  and  day  where  the  waves  are  green. 

Struth  na  Moile,  the  wind  goes  sighin' 
Over  a  waste  o'  wathers  green. 

Sternish  an'  Trostan,  dark  wi'  heather 

High  are  the  Rockies,  airy-blue  ; 
Sure,  ye  have  snows  in  the  winter  weather, 

Here  they're  lyin'  the  long  year  through. 
Snows  are  fair  in  the  summer  weather, 

Och,  an'  the  shadows  between  are  blue  ! 

Lone  Glen  Dun  an'  the  wild  glen-flowers, 
Little  ye  know  if  the  prairie  is  sweet. 

Roses  for  miles,  an'  redder  than  ours, 
Spring  here  undher  the  horses'  feet — 

Aye,  an'  the  black-eyed  gold  sun-flowers, 
Not  as  the  glen-flowers  small  an'  sweet. 

Wathers  o'  Moyle,  I  hear  ye  callin' 
Clearer  for  half  o'  the  world  between, 

Antrim  hills  an'  the  wet  rain  fallin' 

Whiles  ye  are  nearer  than  snow  tops  keen  : 

Dreams  o'  the  night  an'  a  night  wind  callin', 

What  is  the  half  o'  the  world  between  ? 


454  BOOK   V 


DOUGLAS   HYDE 

DR.  HYDE'S  best  work  as  an  Irish  poet  has  been  done  either 
in  the  Gaelic  language  or  in  translations  from  modern  Gaelic, 
in  which  he  has  rendered  with  wonderful  accuracy  the  simpli- 
city and  tenderness  of  the  peasant  bards  of  the  West,  together 
with  the  beautiful  metrical  structure  of  their  verses.  He  has 
devoted  his  life  to  the  collection  and  publication  of  Gaelic 
songs  and  folk-tales,  and  to  the  organisation  of  a  movement  for 
the  preservation  of  the  ancient  language.  There  is  probably 
no  contemporary  name  in  Irish  literature  which  is  better  known 
(on  purely  literary  grounds)  to  the  Irish  people,  and  which  has 
become  more  endeared  to  them  than  that  of  Douglas  Hyde. 

Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D.,  M.R.I. A.,  was  born  in  County  Sligo  in  1860, 
and  is  a  descendant  of  the  Castle  Hyde  family  of  Cork.  After  a  brilliant 
career  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  he  settled  down  to  Gaelic  studies. 
He  has  published  collections  of  folk-tales  (LEABHAR  SGEULUIGHACHTA, 
1889  ;  Cois  NA  TEINEADH  ;  OR,  BESIDE  THE  FIRE,  1890)  and  of  poetry 
(LovE-SoNGS  OF  CONNACHT,  1893)  ;  and  in  1899  produced  a  LITERARY 
HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  which  may  be  reckoned  as  the  first  attempt  to 
write  a  comprehensive  and  connected  history  of  Gaelic  literature. 

MY  LOVE— OH  !  SHE  is  MY  LOVE 

FROM   THE    IRISH 

SHE  casts  a  spell — oh  !  casts  a  spell, 
Which  haunts  me  more  than  I  can  tell, 
Dearer,  because  she  makes  me  ill, 
Than  who  would  will  to  make  me  well. 

She  is  my  store — oh  !  she  my  store^ 
Whose  grey  eye  wounded  me  so  sore, 
Who  will  not  place  in  mine  her  palm, 
Who  will  not  calm  me  any  more. 

She  is  my  pet — oh  !  she  my  pet, 
Whom  I  can  never  more  forget, 
Who  would  not  lose  by  me  one  moan, 
Nor  stone  upon  my  cairn  set. 


DOUGLAS  HYDE  455 

She  is  my  roon  J — oh  !  she  my  roon, 
Who  tells  me  nothing,  leaves  me  soon  ; 
Who  would  not  lose  by  me  one  sigh, 
Were  death  and  I  within  one  room. 


She  is  my  dear — oh  !  she  my  dear, 
Who  cares  not  whether  I  be  here, 
Who  would  not  weep  when  1  am  dead, 
Who  makes  me  shed  the  silent  tear. 

Hard  my  case— oh  !  hard  my  case. 
How  have  I  lived  so  long  a  space  ? 
She  does  not  trust  me  any  more, 
But  I  adore  her  silent  face. 

She  is  my  choice — oh  !  she  my  choice, 
Who  never  made  me  to  rejoice, 
Who  caused  my  heart  to  ache  so  oft, 
Who  put  no  softness  in  her  voice. 

Great  my  grief — oh  !  great  my  grief, 
Neglected,  scorned  beyond  belief, 
By  her  who  looks  at  me  askance, 
By  her  who  grants  me  no  relief. 

She's  my  desire — oh  !  my  desire, 
More  glorious  than  the  bright  sun's  fire  ; 
Who  were  than  wind-blown  ice  more  cold, 
Had  I  the  boldness  to  sit  by  her 

She  it  is  who  stole  my  heart, 
But  left  a  void  and  aching  smart ; 
And  if  she  soften  not  her  eye, 
Then  life  and  I  shall  shortly  part. 

1  R6in :  secret  treasure,  love. 


456  BOOK   V 


RINGLETED  YOUTH  OF  MY  LOVE 
FROM  THE  IRISH 

RINGLETED  youth  of  my  love, 

With  thy  locks  bound  loosely  behind  thee, 
You  passed  by  the  road  above, 

But  you  never  came  in  to  find  me. 
Where  were  the  harm  for  you 

If  you  came  for  a  little  to  see  me  ? 
Your  kiss  is  a  wakening  dew 

Were  I  ever  so  ill  or  so  dreamy. 

If  I  had  golden  store 

I  would  make  a  nice  little  boreen  l 
To  lead  straight  up  to  his  door — 

The  door  of  the  house  of  my  storeen  2 — 
Hoping  to  God  not  to  miss 

The  sound  of  his  footfall  in  it ; 
I  have  waited  so  long  for  his  kiss 

That  for  days  I  have  slept  not  a  minute. 

I  thought,  O  my  love  !  you  were  so — 

As  the  moon  is,  or  sun  on  a  fountain, 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow — 

The  cold  snow  on  top  of  the  mountain — 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  more 

Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 
Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before, 

And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me. 

You  promised  me  high-heeled  shoes, 

And  satin  and  silk,  my  storeen, 
And  to  follow  me,  never  to  lose, 

Though  the  ocean  were  round  us  roaring  ; 
Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  a  wall 

I  am  now  left  lonely  without  thee, 
And  this  house  I  grow  dead  of,  is  all 

That  I  see  around  or  about  me. 

1  Path.  *  Little  treasure. 


DOUGLAS  HYDE  457 


MY  GRIEF  ON  THE  SEA 

FROM   THE   IRISH 

MY  grief  on  the  sea, 

How  the  waves  of  it  roll ! 

For  they  heave  between  me 
And  the  love  of  my  soul  ! 

Abandoned,  forsaken, 
To  grief  and  to  care, 

Will  the  sea  ever  waken 
Relief  from  despair  ? 

My  grief  and  my  trouble  ! 

Would  he  and  I  were 
In  the  province  of  Leinster, 

Or  county  of  Clare  ! 

Were  I  and  my  darling — 
Oh,  heart-bitter  wound  ! — 

On  board  of  the  ship 
For  America  bound  ! 

On  a  green  bed  of  rushes 

All  last  night  I  lay, 
And  I  flung  it  abroad 

With  the  heat  of  the  day. 

And  my  love  came  behind  me- 
He  came  from  the  South  ; 

His  breast  to  my  bosom, 
His  mouth  to  my  mouth. 

LITTLE  CHILD,  I  CALL  THEE 

FROM   THE  IRISH 

LITTLE  child,  I  call  thee  fair, 
Clad  in  hair  of  golden  hue, 

Every  lock  in  ringlets  falling 
Down,  to  almost  kiss  the  dew. 


458  BOOK    V 


Slow  grey  eye  and  languid  mien, 

Brows  as  thin  as  stroke  of  quill, 
Cheeks  of  white  with  scarlet  through  them, 

Och  !  it's  through  them  I  am  ill. 

Luscious  mouth,  delicious  breath, 
Chalk-white  teeth,  and  very  small, 

Lovely  nose  and  little  chin, 

White  neck,  thin — she  is  swan-like  all. 

Pure  white  hand  and  shapely  ringer, 

Limbs  that  linger  like  a  song  ; 
Music  speaks  in  every  motion 

Of  my  sea-mew  warm  and  young. 

Rounded  breasts  and  lime-white  bosom, 

Like  a  blossom  touched  of  none, 
Stately  form  and  slender  waist, 

Far  more  graceful  than  the  swan. 

Alas  for  me  !  I  would  I  were 

With  her  of  the  soft-fingered  palm, 

In  Waterford  to  steal  a  kiss, 
Or  by  the  Liss  whose  airs  are  balm. 

THE  ADDRESS  OF  DEATH  TO  TOMAS  DE  ROISTE 

FROM   THE    IRISH 

I  AM  the  Death  who  am  come  to  you 

Adam  I  smote  and  Eve  I  slew  ; 

All  have  died  or  shall  die  by  me 

Who  have  been  or  who  shall  be, 

Until  the  meeting  on  that  great  hill, 

Where  the  world  must  gather — for  good,  for  ill, 

And  judgment  will  fall  upon  every  one 

For  the  things  he  has  thought  and  things  he  has  done. 

I  am  active  as  the  mind, 

And  swifter  than  the  rush  of  wind 

That  lifts  the  sea-gull  off  the  lake, 

And  faster  than  goat  in  a  mountain  brake, 

Swifter  than  the  sounding  tide, 

Or  the  plunge  of  the  bark  with  its  long  black  side 


DOUGLAS  HYDE  459 

That  furrows  the  wave  when  the  cold  sea  wind 

Rings  in  its  whistling  sails  behind. 

Swifter  am  I  than  the  bird  on  the  bough 

Or  the  fish  with  the  current  that  darts  below  ; 

Swifter  than  the  heavens  high, 

Or  the  cold  clear  moon  in  the  star-bright  sky, 

Or  the  grey  gull  o'er  the  water, 

Or  the  eagle  that  stoops  when  it  scents  the  slaughter. 

I  am  swifter  than  the  pour 

Of  heavy  waves  on  ocean  shore, 

Swifter  than  the  doubling  race 

Of  the  timid  hare  with  the  hounds  in  chase. 

I  mount  upon  the  back  of  kings 

Standing  by  their  pleasant  things, 

By  the  banqueting-board  where  the  lamps  are  bright, 

Or  the  lonely  couch  in  the  lonely  night — 

I  am  a  messenger  tried  and  true  ; 

Wherever  they  travel,  I  travel  too. 


From  the  land  of  the  End  I  have  tidings  wan  — 

I  love  no  woman,  I  like  no  man, 

Nor  high,  nor  low,  nor  young,  nor  old  : 

I  snatch  the  child  from  its  mother's  fold, 

I  tear  the  strong  man  from  his  wife, 

And  I  come  to  the  nurse  for  the  infant's  life  ; 

I  take  from  the  month-old  child  the  father, 

The  widow's  son  to  myself  I  gather, 

With  her  who  was  married  yesternight, 

And  the  wretch  that  wails  for  his  doleful  plight ; 

I  seize  the  hero  of  mighty  deed, 

And  pull  the  rider  from  off  his  steed, 

The  messenger  going  his  rapid  road, 

And  the  lord  of  the  house  from  his  proud  abode, 

And  the  poor  man  gleaning  his  pittance  of  corn. 

And  the  white-necked  maiden  nobly  born, 

And  the  withered  woman  old  and  bare, 

And  the  handsome  youth  so  strong  and  fair, 

From  the  hunt  or  the  dance  or  the  feast  I  bear. 


460  BOOK    V 


T.   W.   ROLLESTON 

BORN  1857  in  the  King's  County.  Educated  at  St.  Columba's 
College,  near  Dublin,  and  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Mr. 
Rolleston  is  author  of  some  prose  works  (THE  TEACHING  OF 
EPICTETUS,  1886  ;  A  LIFE  OF  LESSING,  1889)  and  of  essays  and 
translations  in  German  (UEBER  WORDSWORTH  UND  WALT 
WHITMAN,  1883;  GRASHALME,  von  Walt  Whitman,  ueberset/t 
von  Karl  Knortz  und  T.  W.  Rolleston,  1889).  His 
poems  have  chiefly  appeared  in  The.  Spectator,  The  Academy, 
and  in  two  small  volumes  published  by  the  Rhymers'  Club. 


THE  DEAD  AT  CLONMACNOIS 

FROM   THE   IRISH   OF   ENOCH   O'GILLAN 

IN  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses, 

Stands  Saint  Kieran's  city  fair  : 
And  the  warriors  of  Erin  in  their  famous  generations 

Slumber  there. 

There  beneath  the  dewy  hillside  sleep  the  noblest 

Of  the  clan  of  Conn, 
Each  below  his  stone  with  name  in  branching  Ogham 

And  the  sacred  knot  thereon. 

There  they  laid  to  rest  the  seven  Kings  of  Tara, 

There  the  sons  of  Cairbre  sleep — 
Battle-banners  of  the  Gael,  that  in  Kieran's  plain  of  crosses 

Now  their  final  hosting  keep. 

And  in  Clonmacnois  they  laid  the  men  of  Teffia, 

And  right  many  a  lord  of  Breagh  ; 
Deep  the  sod  above  Clan  Creide  and  Clan  Conaill, 

Kind  in  hall  and  fierce  in  fray. 

Many  and  many  a  son  of  Conn,  the  Hundred-Fighter, 

In  the  red  earth  lies  at  rest ; 
Many  a  blue  eye  of  Clan  Colman  the  turf  covers, 

Many  a  swan-white  breast. 


T.   W.  ROLLESTON  461 


THE  LAMENT  OF  MAEV  LEITH-DHERG, 

FOR    CUCHOKB  :   SON  OF   MOGHCORB,    KING   OF   IRELAND 

From  an  extremely  ancient  Irish  poem  in  the  BOOK  OF  LEINSTER,  fol.  24. 
See  O'Curry's  MANUSCRIPT  MATERIALS  OF  IRISH  HISTORY,  p.  480. 
This  Maev  is  not  the  warrior-goddess  of  Connacht,  but  a  Queen  of  Ireland 
in  times  approaching  the  historic,  about  A.D.  20.  Cucorb  ('  Chariot  - 
Hound  ')  was  slain  on  Mount  Leinster  on  the  borders  of  Wexford. 

RAISE  the  Cromlech  high  ! 

MacMoghcorb  is  slain, 
And  other  men's  renown 

Has  leave  to  live  again. 

Cold  at  last  he  lies 

Neath  the  burial-stone  ; 
All  the  blood  he  shed 

Could  not  save  his  own. 

Stately-strong  he  went, 

Through  his  nobles  all 
When  we  paced  together 

Up  the  banquet-hall. 

Dazzling  white  as  lime 

Was  his  body  fair, 
Cherry-red  his  cheeks, 

Raven-black  his  hair. 

Razor-sharp  his  spear, 

And  the  shield  he  bore, 
High  as  champion's  head — 

His  arm  was  like  an  oar. 

Never  aught  but  truth 

Spake  my  noble  king  ; 
Valour  all  his  trust 

In  all  his  warfaring. 

As  the  forked  pole 

Holds  the  roof-tree's  weight, 
So  my  hero's  arm 

Held  the  battle  straight. 


462  BOOK   V 


Terror  went  before  him, 

Death  behind  his  back  ; 
Well  the  wolves  of  Erinn 

Knew  his  chariot's  track. 

Seven  bloody  battles 

He  broke  upon  his  foes  ; 

In  each  a  hundred  heroes 
Fell  beneath  his  blows. 

Once  he  fought  at  Fossud, 
Thrice  at  Ath-finn-Fail ; 

'Twas  my  king  that  conquered 
At  bloody  Ath-an-Scail. 

At  the  boundary  Stream 
Fought  the  Royal  Hound, 

And  for  Bernas  battle 

Stands  his  name  renowned. 

Here  he  fought  with  Leinster — 

Last  of  all  his  frays — 
On  the  Hill  of  Cucorb's  Fate 

High  his  Cromlech  raise. 

SONG  OF  MAELDUIN. 

THERE  are  veils  that  lift,  there  are  bars  that  fall, 
There  are  lights  that  beckon,  and  winds  that  call- 
Good-bye  ! 

There  are  hurrying  feet,  and  we  dare  not  wait, 
For  the  hour  is  on  us— the  hour  of  Fate, 
The  circling  hour  of  the  flaming  gate — 

Good-bye — good-bye— good-bye  ! 

Fair,  fair  they  shine  through  the  burning  zone — 
The  rainbow  gleams  of  a  world  unknown  ; 

Good-bye  ! 

And  oh  !  to  follow,  to  seek,  to  dare, 
When,  step  by  step,  in  the  evening  air 
Floats  down  to  meet  us  the  cloudy  stair  ! 

Good-bye— good-bye— good-bye  ! 


T.    IV.   ROLLESTON  463 

The  cloudy  stair  of  the  Brig  o'  Dread 

Is  the  dizzy  path  that  our  feet  must  tread — 

Good-bye  ! 

O  children  of  Time— O  Nights  and  Days, 
That  gather  and  wonder  and  stand  at  gaze, 
And  wheeling  stars  in  your  lonely  ways, 

Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye  ! 

The  music  calls  and  the  gates  unclose, 
Onward  and  onward  the  wild  way  goes — 

Good-bye  ! 

We  die  in  the  bliss  of  a  great  new  birth, 
O  fading  phantoms  of  pain  and  mirth, 
O  fading  loves  of  the  old  green  earth — 

Good-bye — good-bye— good-bye  ! 


THOMAS   BOYD 

A  YOUNG  Irish  poet  of  remarkable  power  and  promise.  He  is 
a  native  of  County  Louth,  and  at  present  resides  in  London. 
His  very  striking  poem  '  To  the  Leanan  Sidhe '  shows  a  genius 
closely  akin  to  that  of  George  Barley  and  eminently  Celtic  in 
character. 

To  THE  LEANAN  SIDHE  l 
WHERE  is  thy  lovely  perilous  abode  ? 

In  what  strange  phantom-land 
Glimmer  the  fairy  turrets  whereto  rode 
The  ill-starred  poet  band  ? 

Say,  in  the  Isle  of  Youth  hast  thou  thy  home, 

The  sweetest  singer  there, 
Stealing  on  winged  steed  across  the  foam 

Thorough  the  moonlit  air? 

Or,  where  the  mists  of  bluebell  float  beneath 

The  red  stems  of  the  pine, 
And  sunbeams  strike  thro'  shadow,  dost  thou  breathe 

The  word  that  makes  him  thine  ? 


The  Fairy  Bride.'     Pronounced  Lenawn  Shee. 


464  BOOK   V 


Or  by  the  gloomy  peaks  of  Erigal, 

Haunted  by  storm  and  cloud, 
Wing  past,  and  to  thy  lover  there  let  fall 

His  singing-robe  and  shroud  ? 

Or,  is  thy  palace  entered  thro'  some  cliff 

When  radiant  tides  are  full, 
And  round  thy  lover's  wandering,  starlit  skiff, 

Coil  in  luxurious  lull  ? 

And  would  he,  entering  on  the  brimming  flood, 

See  caverns  vast  in  height, 
And  diamond  columns,  crowned  with  leaf  and  bud, 

Glow  in  long  lanes  of  light, 

And  there,  the  pearl  of  that  great  glittering  shell 

Trembling,  behold  thee  lone, 
Now  weaving  in  slow  dance  an  awful  spell, 

Now  still  upon  thy  throne  ? 

Thy  beauty  !  ah,  the  eyes  that  pierce  him  thro' 

Then  melt  as  in  a  dream  ; 
The  voice  that  sings  the  mysteries  of  the  blue 

And  all  that  Be  and  Seem  ! 

Thy  lovely  motions  answering  to  the  rhyme 

That  ancient  Nature  sings, 
That  keeps  the  stars  in  cadence  for  all  time, 

And  echoes  thro'  all  things  ! 

Whether  he  sees  thee  thus,  or  in  his  dreams, 

Thy  light  makes  all  lights  dim  ; 
An  aching  solitude  from  henceforth  seems 

The  world  of  men  to  him. 

Thy  luring  song,  above  the  sensuous  roar, 

He  follows  with  delight, 
Shutting  behind  him  Life's  last  gloomy  door, 

And  fares  into  the  Night. 


THOMAS  BO  YD  465 


THE  KING'S  SON 

WHO  rideth  thro'  the  driving  rain 

At  such  a  headlong  speed  ? 
Naked  and  pale  he  rides  amain 

Upon  a  naked  steed. 

Nor  hollow  nor  height  his  going  bars, 
His  wet  steed  shines  like  silk  ; 

His  head  is  golden  to  the  stars, 
And  his  limbs  are  white  as  milk. 

But  lo,  he  dwindles  as  a  light 

That  lifts  from  a  black  mere  ! 
And  as  the  fair  youth  wanes  from  sight 
The  steed  grows  mightier. 

What  wizard  by  the  holy  tree 

Mutters  unto  the  sky, 
Where  Macha's  flame-tongued  horses  flee 

On  hoofs  of  thunder  by  ? 

Ah,  'tis  not  holy  so  to  ban 

The  youth  of  kingly  seed  ; 
Ah,  woe,  the  wasting  of  a  man 

That  changes  to  a  steed  ! 

Nightly  upon  the  Plain  of  Kings 

When  Macha's  day  is  nigh 
He  gallops  ;  and  the  dark  wind  brings 

His  lonely  human  cry. 


LIONEL   JOHNSON 

IF  I  were  asked  to  say  what  distinguishes  the  little  school  of 
contemporary  Irish  poets,  I  would  say  they  believe,  with  a 
singular  fervour  of  belief,  in  a  spiritual  life,  and  express  this 
belief  in  their  poetry.  Contemporary  English  poets  are 

H  H 


466  BOOK   V 


interested  in  the  glory  of  the  world,  like  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  ; 
or  in  the  order  of  the  world,  like  Mr.  William  Watson  ;  or  in  the 
passion  of  the  world,  like  Mr.  John  Davidson  ;  or  in  the  pleasure 
of  the  world,  like  Mr.  Arthur  Symons.  Mr.  Francis  Thompson, 
who  has  fallen  under  the  shadow  of  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore, 
the  poet  of  an  older  time  and  in  protest  against  that  time,  is 
alone  preoccupied  with  a  spiritual  life  ;  and  even  he,  except  at 
rare  moments,  has  less  living  fervour  of  belief  than  pleasure  in 
the  gleaming  and  scented  and  coloured  symbols  that  are  the 
footsteps  where  the  belief  of  others  has  trodden.  Ireland, 
which  has  always  believed  in  a  spiritual  life,  is  creating  in 
English  a  poetry  which,  whatever  be  its  merits,  is  as  full  of 
spiritual  ardour  as  the  poetry  that  praised  in  Gaelic  *  the  Ever- 
Living  Living  Ones,'  and  '  the  Country  of  the  Two  Mists,'  and 
f  the  Country  of  the  Young,'  and  *  the  Country  of  the  Living 
Heart.' 

'  A.  E.'  has  written  an  ecstatic  pantheistic  poetry  which 
reveals  in  all  things  a  kind  of  scented  flame  consuming  them 
from  within.  Miss  Hopper,  an  unequal  and  immature  poet, 
whose  best  verses  are  delicate  and  distinguished,  has  no  clear 
vision  of  spiritual  things,  but  makes  material  things  as  frail 
and  fragile  as  if  they  were  already  ashes,  that  we  stirred 
in  some  mid-world  of  dreams,  as  '  the  gossips '  in  her  poem 
'stir  their  lives'  red  ashes.'  Mrs.  Hinkson,  uninteresting  at 
her  worst,  as  only  uncritical  and  unspeculative  writers  are  un- 
interesting, has  sometimes  expressed  an  impassioned  and 
instinctive  Catholicism  in  poems  that  are,  as  I  believe,  as 
perfect  as  they  are  beautiful,  while  Mr.  Lionel  Johnson  has  in 
his  poetry  completed  the  trinity  of  the  spiritual  virtues  by 
adding  Stoicism  to  Ecstasy  and  Asceticism.  He  has  renounced 
the  world  and  built  up  a  twilight  world  instead,  where  all  the 
colours  are  like  the  colours  in  the  rainbow  that  is  cast  by 
the  moon,  and  all  the  people  as  far  from  modern  tumults  as 
the  people  upon  fading  and  dropping  tapestries.  He  has  so 
little  interest  in  our  pains  and  pleasures,  and  is  so  wrapped  up 
in  his  own  world,  that  one  comes  from  his  books  wearied  and 
exalted,  as  though  one  had  posed  for  some  noble  action  in  a 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  467 

strange  tableau  vivcint  that  cast  its  painful  stillness  upon  the 
mind  instead  of  the  body.  He  might  have  cried  with  Axel, 
'  As  for  living,  our  servants  will  do  that  for  us.'  As  Axel  chose 
to  die,  he  has  chosen  to  live  among  his  books  and  between 
two  memories — the  religious  tradition  of  the  Church  of  Rome 
and  the  political  tradition  of  Ireland.  From  these  he  gazes 
upon  the  future,  and  whether  he  write  of  Sertorius  or  of 
Lucretius,  or  of  Parnell  or  of  '  Ireland's  dead,'  or  of  '98,  or 
of  St.  Columba  or  of  Leo  XIII.,  it  is  always  with  the  same 
cold  or  scornful  ecstasy.  He  has  made  a  world  full  of  altar 
lights  and  golden  vestures,  and  murmured  Latin  and  incense 
clouds,  and  autumn  winds  and  dead  leaves,  where  one  wanders 
remembering  martyrdoms  and  courtesies  that  the  world  has 
forgotten. 

His  ecstasy  is  the  ecstasy  of  combat,  not  of  submission 
to  the  Divine  will ;  and  even  when  he  remembers  that  *  the 
old  Saints  prevail,'  he  sees  the  '  one  ancient  Priest '  who  alone 
offers  the  Sacrifice,  and  remembers  the  loneliness  of  the 
Saints.  Had  he  not  this  ecstasy  of  combat,  he  would  be 
the  poet  of  those  peaceful  and  unhappy  souls,  who,  in  the 
symbolism  of  a  living  Irish  visionary,  are  compelled  to  inhabit 
when  they  die  a  shadowy  island  Paradise  in  the  West,  where 
the  moon  always  shines,  and  a  mist  is  always  on  the  face  of 
the  moon,  and  a  music  of  many  sighs  is  always  in  the  air, 
because  they  renounced  the  joy  of  the  world  without  accepting 
the  joy  of  God. 

W.  B.  YEATS 

Lionel  Johnson  was  born  about  1867,  and  comes  of  a  Sligo  family.  He 
was  educated  at  WinchesteY  and  Oxford,  but  was  early  attracted  to  Irish 
studies  and  ideas.  He  has  published  a  volume  of  verse,  POEMS,  1895,  ><a&  we^ 
as  a  prose  book  on  THE  ART  OF  THOMAS  HARDY. 

WAYS  OF  WAR 

A  TERRIBLE  and  splendid  trust 

Heartens  the  host  of  Innisfail : 
Their  dream  is  of  the  swift  sword-thrust, 

A  lightning  glory  of  the  Gael. 

H  H  2 


468  BOOK   V 


Croagh  Patrick  is  the  place  of  prayers, 

And  Tara  the  assembling-place  : 
But  each  sweet  wind  of  Ireland  bears 

The  trump  of  battle  on  its  race. 

From  Dursey  Isle  to  Donegal, 

From  Howth  to  Achill,  the  glad  noise 

Rings  :  and  the  heirs  of  glory  fall, 
Or  victory  crowns  their  fighting  joys. 

A  dream  !  a  dream  !  an  ancient  dream  ! 

Yet,  ere  peace  come  to  Innisfail, 
Some  weapons  on  some  field  must  gleam, 

Some  burning  glory  fire  the  Gael. 

That  field  may  lie  beneath  the  sun, 

Fair  for  the  treading  of  an  host  : 
That  field  in  realms  of  thought  be  won, 

And  armed  minds  do  their  uttermost  : 

Some  way  to  faithful  Innisfail 

Shall  come  the  majesty  and  awe 
Of  martial  truth,  that  must  prevail 

To  lay  on  all  the  eternal  law. 

TE  MARTYRUM  CANDIDATUS 

AH,  see  the  fair  chivalry  come,  the  companions  of  Christ  ! 

White  Horsemen,  who  ride  on  white  horses,  the  Knights  of  God  ! 
They  for  their  Lord  and  their  Lover  who  sacrificed 

All,  save  the  sweetness  of  treading  where  He  first  trod  ! 
These  through  the  darkness  of  death,  the  dominion  of  night, 

Swept,  and  they  woke  in  white  places  at  morning  tide  : 
They  saw  with  their  eyes,  and  sang  for  joy  of  the  sight, 

They  saw  with  their  eyes  the  Eyes  of  the  Crucified. 

Now,  whithersoever  He  goeth,  with  Him  they  go  : 

White  Horsemen,  who  ride  on  white  horses — oh,  fair  to  see  ! 

They  ride  where  the  Rivers  of  Paradise  flash  and  flow, 
White  Horsemen,  with  Christ  their  Captain  :  for  ever  He  ! 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  469 


THE  DARK  ANGEL 

DARK  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust 
To  rid  the  world  of  penitence  : 

Malicious  Angel,  who  still  dost 
My  soul  such  subtile  violence  ! 

Because  of  thee,  no  thought,  no  thing, 

Abides  for  me  undesecrate  : 
Dark  Angel,  ever  on  the  wing, 

Who  never  reachest  me  too  late  ! 

When  music  sounds,  then  changest  thou 

Its  silvery  to  a  sultry  fire  ; 
Nor  will  thine  envious  heart  allow 

Delight  untortured  by  desire. 

Through  thee,  the  gracious  Muses  turn 

To  Furies,  O  mine  Enemy  ! 
And  all  the  things  of  beauty  burn 

With  flames  of  evil  ecstasy. 

Because  of  thee,  the  land  of  dreams 
Becomes  a  gathering-place  of  fears  ; 

Until  tormented  slumber  seems 
One  vehemence  of  useless  tears. 

When  sunlight  glows  upon  the  flowers, 
Or  ripples  down  the  dancing  sea, 

Thou  with  thy  troop  of  passionate  powers 
Beleaguerest,  bewilderest  me. 

Within  the  breath  of  autumn  woods, 

Within  the  winter  silences, 
Thy  venomous  spirit  stirs  and  broods, 

O  Master  of  impieties  ! 

The  ardour  of  red  flame  is  thine, 
And  thine  the  steely  soul  of  ice  ; 

Thou  poisonest  the  fair  design 
Of  Nature  with  unfair  device. 


470  BOOK   V 


Apples  of  ashes,  golden  bright  ; 
Waters  of  bitterness,  how  sweet ! 

0  banquet  of  a  foul  delight, 
Prepared  by  thee,  dark  Paraclete  ! 

Thou  art  the  whisper  in  the  gloom, 
The  hinting  tone,  the  haunting  laugh  ; 

Thou  art  the  adorner  of  my  tomb, 
The  minstrel  of  mine  epitaph. 

1  fight  thee,  in  the  Holy  Name  ! 

Yet  what  thou  dost  is  what  God  saith. 
Tempter  !  should  I  escape  thy  flame, 
Thou  wilt  have  helped  my  soul  from  Death  — 

The  second  Death,  that  never  dies, 
That  cannot  die,  when  time  is  dead  ; 

Live  Death,  wherein  the  lost  soul  cries, 
Eternally  uncomforted. 

Dark  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust  ! 

Of  two  defeats,  of  two  despairs  : 
Less  dread,  a  change  to  drifting  dust, 

Than  thine  eternity  of  cares. 

Do  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  so, 

Dark  Angel !  triumph  over  me  : 
Lonely  unto  the  Lone  I  go  ; 

Divine,  to  the  Divinity. 

THE  CHURCH  OF  A  DREAM 

SADLY  the  dead  leaves  rustle  in  the  whistling  wind, 

Around  the  weather-worn,  grey  church,  low  down  the  vale  ; 
The  Saints  in  golden  vesture  shake  before  the  gale  ; 

The  glorious  windows  shake,  where  still  they  dwell  enshrined  ; 

Old  Saints,  by  long  dead,  shrivelled  hands  long  since  designed  ; 
There  still,  although  the  world  autumnal  be,  and  pale, 
Still  in  their  golden  vesture  the  old  saints  prevail  ; 

Alone  with  Christ,  desolate  else,  left  by  mankind. 

Only  one  ancient  Priest  offers  the  sacrifice, 
Murmuring  holy  Latin  immemorial ; 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  471 


Swaying  with  tremulous  hands  the  old  censer  full  of  spice, 
In  grey,  sweet,  incense  clouds  ;  blue,  sweet  clouds  mystical  ; 

To  him  in  place  of  men,  for  he  is  old,  suffice 
Melancholy  remembrances  and  vesperal. 

THE  AGE  OF  A  DREAM 

IMAGERIES  of  dreams  reveal  a  gracious  age  ; 

Black  armour,  falling  lace,  and  altar  lights  at  morn. 

The  courtesy  of  Saints,  their  gentleness  and  scorn, 
Lights  on  an  earth  more  fair  than  shone  from  Plato's  page  ; 
The  courtesy  of  knights,  fair  calm  and  sacred  rage ; 

The  courtesy  of  love,  sorrow  for  love's  sake  borne. 

Vanished,  those  high  conceits  !     Desolate  and  forlorn, 
We  hunger  against  hope  for  that  lost  heritage. 

Gone  now,  the  carven  work  !     Ruined,  the  golden  shrine  ! 
No  more  the  glorious  organs  pour  their  voice  divine  ; 

No  more  rich  frankincense  drifts  through  the  Holy  Place  ; 
Now  from  the  broken  tower,  what  solemn  bell  still  tolls, 
Mourning  what  piteous  death?     Answer,  O  saddened  souls  ! 

Who  mourn  the  death  of  beauty  and  the  death  of  grace. 


NORA   HOPPER 

MODERN  poetry  grows  weary  of  using  over  and  over  again  the 
personages  and  stories  and  metaphors  that  have  come  to  us 
through  Greece  and  Rome,  or  from  Wales  and  Brittany 
through  the  Middle  Ages,  and  has  found  new  life  in  the  Norse 
and  German  legends.  The  Irish  legends,  in  popular  tradition 
and  in  old  Gaelic  literature,  are  more  numerous  and  as  beauti- 
ful, and  alone  among  great  European  legends  have  the  beauty 
and  wonder  of  altogether  new  things.  May  one  not  say,  then, 
without  saying  anything  improbable,  that  they  will  have  a  pre- 
dominant influence  in  the  coming  century,  and  'that  their 
influence  will  pass  through  many  countries  ? 


472  BOOK   V 


The  latest  of  a  little  group  of  contemporary  writers,  who 
have  begun  to  found  their  work  upon  them,  as  the  Trouveres 
founded  theirs  upon  the  legends  of  Arthur  and  his  knights,  is 
Miss  Nora  Hopper,  whose  two  books,  though  they  have  many 
of  the  faults  of  youth,  have  at  their  best  an  extraordinary 
delicacy  and  charm.  I  got  BALLADS  IN  PROSE  when  it  came 
out,  two  or  three  years  ago,  and  it  haunted  me  as  few  new 
books  have  ever  haunted  me,  for  it  spoke  in  strange  wayward 
stories  and  birdlike  little  verses  of  things  and  of  persons  I 
remembered  or  had  dreamed  of ;  it  did  not  speak  with  the  too 
emphatic  manner  that  sometimes  mars  the  more  powerful 
stories  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  has  told  of  like  things  and  persons, 
but  softly — more  murmuring  than  speaking.  Even  now,  when 
the  first  enchantment  is  gone  and  I  see  faults  I  was  blind  to, 
I  cannot  go  by  certain  brown  bogs  covered  with  white  tufts  of 
bog-cotton — places  where  the  world  seems  to  become  faint 
and  fragile  — without  remembering  the  verses  her  Daluan— a 
kind  of  Irish  Pan — sings  among  the  bogs  ;  and  when  once  I 
remember  them,  they  run  in  my  head  for  hours — 

All  the  way  to  Tir  na  n'Og  are  many  roads  that  run, 

But  the  darkest  road  is  trodden  by  the  King  of  Ireland's  son. 

The  world  wears  on  to  sundown,  and  love  is  lost  and  won, 

But  he  recks  not  of  loss  or  gain,  the  King  of  Ireland's  son. 

He  follows  on  for  ever,  when  all  your  chase  is  done, 

He  follows  after  shadows— the  King  of  Ireland's  son. 

One  does  not  know  why  he  sings  it,  or  why  he  dies  on 
November  Eve,  or  why  the  men  cry  over  him  '  Daluan  is 
dead — dead  !  Daluan  is  dead  ! '  and  the  women,  '  Da  Mort 
is  king,'  for  '  Duluan  '  is  but  Monday  and  *  Da  Mort '  is  but 
Tuesday  ;  nor  does  one  well  know  why  any  of  her  best  stories, 
'Bahalaun  and  I,'  'The  Gifts  of  Aodh  and  Una,'  'The 
Four  Kings,'  or  'Aonan-nan  Righ,'  shaped  itself  into  the 
strange,  drifting,  dreamy  thing  it  is,  and  one  is  content  not  to 
know.  They  delight  us  by  their  mystery,  as  ornament  full  of 
lines,  too  deeply  interwoven  to  weary  us  with  a  discoverable 
secret,  delights  us  with  its  mystery  ;  and  as  ornament  is  full  of 


NORA   HOPPER  473 


strange  beasts  and  trees  and  flowers,  that  were  once  the  sym- 
bols of  great  religions,  and  are  now  mixing  one  with  another, 
and  changing  into  new  shapes,  this  book  is  full  of  old  beliefs 
and  stories,  mixing  and  changing  in  an  enchanted  dream. 
Their  very  mystery,  that  has  left  them  so  little  to  please  the 
mortal  passionate  part  of  us,  which  delights  in  the  broad  noon- 
light  .men  need  if  they  would  merely  act  and  live,  has  given 
them  that  melancholy  which  is  almost  wisdom. 

A  great  part  of  QUICKEN  BOUGHS  was  probably  written 
before  BALLADS  IN  PROSE  ;  for,  though  it  is  all  verse,  it  has  few 
verses  of  the  same  precise  and  delicate  music  as  those  scattered 
among  the  stories  in  the  earlier  book.  But  *  Phyllis  and 
Damon '  is  perfect  in  its  kind,  while  '  The  Dark  Man '  gives 
beautiful  words  to  that  desire  of  spiritual  beauty  and  happiness 
which  runs  through  so  much  modern  true  poetry.  It  is 
founded  upon  the  belief,  common  in  Ireland,  that  certain 
persons  are,  as  it  is  called,  '  away '  or  more  with  the  fairies 
than  with  us,  and  that  *  dark '  or  blind  people  can  see  what 
we  cannot. 

W.  B.  YEATS. 

Miss  Hopper's  volumes  are  :  BALLADS  IN  PROSE,  QUICKEN  BOUGHS,  and 

SONGS  OF  THE   MORNING. 

THE  FAIRY  FIDDLER 

'Tis  I  go  riddling,  fiddling, 

By  weedy  ways  forlorn  : 
I  make  the  blackbird's  music 

Ere  in  his  breast  'tis  born  ; 
The  sleeping  larks  I  waken 

'Twixt  the  midnight  and  the  morn. 

No  man  alive  has  seen  me, 

But  women  hear  me  play 
Sometimes  at  door  or  window, 

Fiddling  the  souls  away — 
The  child's  soul  and  the  colleen's— 

Out  of  the  covering  clay. 


474  BOOK    V 


None  of  my  fairy  kinsmen 

Make  music  with  me  now  : 
Alone  the  raths  I  wander, 

Or  ride  the  whitethorn  bough  ; 
But  the  wild  swans  they  know  me, 

And  the  horse  that  draws  the  plough. 

THE  DARK  MAN 

ROSE  o'  THE  WORLD,  she  came  to  my  bed 
And  changed  the  dreams  of  my  heart  and  head  ; 
For  joy  of  mine  she  left  grief  of  hers, 
And  garlanded  me  with  a  crown  of  furze. 

Rose  o'  the  World,  they  go  out  and  in, 
And  watch  me  dream  and  my  mother  spin  : 
And  they  pity  the  tears  on  my  sleeping  face 
While  my  soul's  away  in  a  fairy  place. 

Rose  o'  the  World,  they  have  words  galore, 
And  wide's  the  swing  of  my  mother's  door  : 
And  soft  they  speak  of  my  darkened  eyes — 
But  what  do  they  know,  who  are  all  so  wise  ? 

Rose  o'  the  World,  the  pain  you  give 
Is  worth  all  days  that  a  man  may  live — 
Worth  all  shy  prayers  that  the  colleens  say 
On  the  night  that  darkens  the  wedding-day. 

Rose  o'  the  World,  what  man  would  wed 
When  he  might  dream  of  your  face  instead  ? — 
Might  go  to  his  grave  with  the  blessed  pain 
Of  hungering  after  your  face  again  ? 

Rose  o'  the  World,  they  may  talk  their  fill, 
For  dreams  are  good,  and  my  life  stands  still 
While  their  lives'  red  ashes  the  gossips  stir  ; 
But  my  fiddle  knows — and  I  talk  to  her. 


NORA   HOPPER  475 


PHYLLIS  AND  DAMON 

PHYLLIS  and  Damon  met  one  day  . 

(Heigho  !) 

Phyllis  was  sad,  and  Damon  grey, 
Tired  with  treading  a  separate  way. 

Damon  sighed  for  his  broken  flute  : 

(Heigho  !) 

Phyllis  went  with  a  noiseless  foot 
Under  the  olives  stript  of  fruit. 

Met  they,  parted  they,  all  unsaid  ? 

(Heigho  !) 

Ah  !  but  a  ghost's  lips  are  not  red  ; 
Damon  was  old  and  Phyllis  dead. 

(Heigho  !) 


ALTHEA  GYLES 

Miss  ALTHEA  GYLES  may  come  to  be  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant of  the  little  group  of  Irish  poets  who  ^eek  to  express 
indirectly  through  myths  and  symbols,  or  directly  in  little 
lyrics  full  of  prayers  and  lamentations,  the  desire  of  the  soul 
for  spiritual  beauty  and  happiness.  She  has  done,  besides  the 
lyric  I  quote,  which  is  charming  in  form  and  substance,  a  small 
number  of  poems  full  of  original  symbolism  and  spiritual 
ardour,  though  as  yet  lacking  in  rhythmical  subtlety.  Her 
drawings  and  book-covers,  in  which  precise  symbolism  never 
interferes  with  beauty  of  design,  are  as  yet  her  most  satisfactory 
expression  of  herself. 

W.  B.  YEATS. 
SYMPATHY 

THE  colour  gladdens  all  your  heart ; 

You  call  it  Heaven,  dear,  but  I — 
Now  Hope  and  I  are  far  apart — 

Call  it  the  sky. 


476  BOOK   V 


I  know  that  Natures  tears  have  wet 
The  world  with  sympathy  ;  but  you, 

Who  know  not  any  sorrow  yet, 
Call  it  the  dew. 


WILLIAM   LARMINIE 

IT  is  difficult  in  an  anthology  to  do  justice  to  poetry  whose 
charm  does  not  lie  so  much  in  the  beauty  of  exceptional 
passages  as  in  a  continuous  elevation  of  thought.  I  believe  Mr. 
Larminie's  verse,  now  almost  unknown,  will  find  many  readers, 
and  that  his  two  longest  poems — *  Fand  '  and  '  Moytura  '— 
will  be  permanently  remembered.  It  is  difficult  to  understand 
why  this  writer,  who  has  many  and  great  gifts  as  an  imaginative 
poet,  should  have  been  so  coldly  received.  With  the  general 
public  the  irregular  form  and  the  unusual  metres  may  explain 
the  neglect,  for  the  Gaelic  assonance  has  in  much  of  his  verse  been 
substituted  for  rhyme.  But  the  few  who  persevered  beyond 
the  first  pages,  long  enough  to  allow  the  cadences  to  become 
familiar,  have  found  a  growing  charm  such  as  we  experience  on 
a  misty  morning  when  we  go  out  and  feel  the  sun's  rays 
slowly  warming  and  pervading  the  world  with  clear  cool  light. 
I  confess  this  austere  poetry  at  its  best  holds  my  imagination 
almost  as  much  as  that  of  any  contemporary  writer.  It  is  not 
always  beautiful  in  expression,  though  it  is  full  of  dignity.  The 
poet  certainly  does  not  '  look  upon  fine  phrases  like  a  lover.' 
He  is  much  more  concerned  with  the  substance  of  his  thought 
than  with  the  expression.  He  leads  us  into  his  own  spirit  by 
ways  which  are  often  rugged  ;  but  at  the  end,  as  we  close  the 
pages,  we  are  on  a  mountain-top  and  the  stars  are  very  near. 
He  is  a  mystic,  but  his  mysticism  is  never  incoherent  and 
is  always  profoundly  philosophical ;  and  those  who  perhaps 
would  look  in  poetry  for  other  verbal  effects  of  sound  and 
colour  may  at  least  read  for  this  with  interest  and  pleasure  the 
dramatic  poem  '  Moytura.'  Here  the  battle  fought  between 


WILLIAM  LARMINIE  477 

the  De  Danann  gods  and  the  Fohmors  becomes  the  eternal 
war  between  light  and  darkness,  and  the  Celtic  legend  is 
interwoven  with  wonderful  skill  into  more  universal  hopes  and 
traditions.  For  sustained  imaginative  power  this  poem  is  not 
surpassed  by  anything  in  modern  Irish  poetry,  and  I  cannot 
read  it  without  an  excitement  of  the  spirit.  Mr.  Larminie's 
method  of  treatment  of  Irish  traditions  is  indeed  very  different 
from  that  of  other  contemporary  artists  who  have  handled  them. 
He  has  experimented  in  a  style  of  his  own  which  is  sometimes 
disagreeable,  but  often  has  a  novel  charm,  and  suggests  that, 
used  by  a  more  skilful  artist  in  words,  the  assonance  might 
very  well  replace  rhyme.  Even  where  Mr.  Larminie  fails  most 
to  express  himself  with  charm,  a  spiritual  depth  and  originality 
in  his  thought  is  evident  :  and  I  might  describe  him  as  a  poet 
by  saying  that  the  spirit  is  indeed  kingly,  but  without  the 
purple  robe  which  should  be  the  outer  token  of  his  lofty  rank 

A.  E. 


Mr.  William  Larminie  was  a  native  of  Mayo,  and  lived  most  of  his 
life  near  Dublin.  His  early  and  lamented  death  took  place  in  1899.  His 
publications  are  GLANLUA  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  1889  ;  WEST  IRISH 
FOLK  TALES  AND  ROMANCES,  1893  5  FAND  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  1892. 

THE  SPEECH  OF  EMER 

This  fragment  is  from  '  Fand.1  Cuhoolin  has  been  lured  from  his  home  by 
the  wiles  of  the  goddess  Fand  ;  his  wife  Emer  c.iscovers  him,  and  pleads  with 
him  as  follows  : 

HEED  her  not,  O  Cuhoolin,  husband  mine  ; 

Delusive  is  the  bliss  she  offers  thee — 

Bliss  that  will  to  torment  turn, 

Like  one  bright  colour  for  ever  before  thine  eyes, 

Since  of  mortal  race  thou  art. 

Man  is  the  shadow  of  a  changing  world  ; 

As  the  image  of  a  tree 

By  the  breeze  swayed  to  and  fro 

On  the  grass,  so  changeth  he  ; 

Night  and  day  are  in  his  breast ; 


478  BOOK    V 


Winter  and  summer,  all  the  change 

Of  light  and  darkness  and  the  seasons  marching  ; 

Flowers  that  bud  and  fade, 

Tides  that  rise  and  fall. 

Even  with  the  waxing  and  the  waning  moon 

His  being  beats  in  tune  ; 

The  air  that  is  his  life 

Inhales  he  with  alternate  heaving  breath  ; 

Joyous  to  him  is  effort,  sweet  is  rest ; 

Life  he  hath  and  death. 


Then  seek  not  thou  too  soon  that  permanence 

Of  changeless  joy  that  suits  unchanging  gods, 

In  whom  no  tides  of  being  ebb  and  flow. 

Out  of  the  flux  and  reflux  of  the  world 

Slowly  man's  soul  doth  gather  to  itself, 

Atom  by  atom,  the  hard  elements — 

Firm,  incorruptible,  indestructible  — 

Whereof,  when  all  his  being  is  compact, 

No  more  it  wastes  nor  hungers,  but  endures 

Needing  not  any  food  of  changing  things, 

But  fit  among  like-natured  gods  to  live, 

Amongst  whom,  entering  too  soon,  he  perishes, 

Unable  to  endure  their  fervid  gaze. 

Though  now  thy  young,  heroic  soul 

Be  mate  for  her  immortal  might, 

Yet  think  :  thy  being  is  still  but  as  a  lake 

That,  by  the  help  of  friendly  streams  unfed, 

Full  soon  the  sun  drinks  up. 

Wait  till  thou  hast  sea-depths — 

Till  all  the  tides  of  life  and  deed, 

Of  action  and  of  meditation, 

Of  service  unto  others  and  their  love, 

Shall  pour  into  the  caverns  of  thy  being 

The  might  of  their  unconquerable  floods. 

Then  canst  thou  bear  the  glow  of  eyes  divine. 

And  like  the  sea  beneath  the  sun  at  noon 

Shalt  shine  in  splendour  inexhaustible. 


WILLIAM  LARMINIE  479 

Therefore  be  no  more  tempted  by  her  lures — 

Not  that  way  lies  thine  immortality  : 

But  thou  shalt  find  it  in  the  ways  of  men, 

Where  many  a  task  remains  for  thee  to  do, 

And  shall  remain  for  many  after  thee, 

Till  all  the  storm-winds  of  the  world  be  bound. 

EPILOGUE  TO  FAND 

Is  there  one  desires  to  hear 
If  within  the  shores  of  Eire 
Eyes  may  still  behold  the  scene 
Fair  from  Fand's  enticements  ? 

Let  him  seek  the  southern  hills 
And  those  lakes  of  loveliest  water 
Where  the  richest  blooms  of  spring 
Burn  to  reddest  autumn  : 
And  the  clearest  echo  sings 
Notes  a  goddess  taught  her. 

Ah  !  'twas  very  long  ago, 

And  the  words  are  now  denied  her  : 

But  the  purple  hillsides  know 

Still  the  tones  delightsome, 

And  their  breasts,  impassioned,  glow 

As  were  Fand  beside  them. 

And  though  many  an  isle  be  fair, 
Fairer  still  is  Inisfallen, 
Since  the  hour  Cuhoolin  lay 
In  the  bower  enchanted. 
See  !  the  ash  that  waves  to-day, 
Fand  its  grandsire  planted. 

When  from  wave  to  mountain-top 
All  delight  thy  sense  bewilders, 
Thou  shalt  own  the  wonder  wrought 
Once  by  her  skilled  fingers, 
Still,  though  many  an  age  be  gone, 
Round  Killarney  lingers. 


480  BOOK   V 


CONSOLATION 

YES,  let  us  speak,  with  lips  confirming 
The  inner  pledge  that  eyes  reveal- 
Bright  eyes  that  death  shall  dim  for  ever, 
And  lips  that  silence  soon  shall  seal. 

Yes,  let  us  make  our  claim  recorded 
Against  the  powers  of  earth  and  sky, 

And  that  cold  boon  their  laws  award  us — 
Just  once  to  live  and  once  to  die. 

Thou  sayest  that  fate  is  frosty  nothing, 
But  love  the  flame  of  souls  that  are  : 

*  Two  spirits  approach,  and  at  their  touching, 
Behold  !  an  everlasting  star.' 

High  thoughts,  O  love  :  well,  let  us  speak  them  ! 

Yet  bravely  face  at  least  this  fate  : 
To  know  the  dreams  of  us  that  dream  them 

On  blind,  unknowing  things  await. 

If  years  from  winter's  chill  recover, 

If  fields  are  green  and  rivers  run, 
If  thou  and  I  behold  each  other, 

Hangs  it  not  all  on  yonder  sun  ? 

So  while  that  mighty  lord  is  gracious 
With  prodigal  beams  to  flood  the  skies, 

Let  us  be  glad  that  he  can  spare  us 
The  light  to  kindle  lovers'  eyes. 

And  die  assured,  should  life's  new  wonder 

In  any  world  our  slumbers  break, 
These  the  first  words  that  each  will  utter  : 

*  Beloved,  art  thou  too  awake  ? ' 


WILLIAM  LARM1NIE  481 

THE  SWORD  OF  TETHRA 

From  MOYTURA 

The  sword  of  Tethra  one  of  the  Kings  of  the  Fohmors  is  captured  by  the 
sun-god  Lu.     This  sword  is  Death. 

The  Sword:     I  am  the  breath  of  Tethra,  voice  of  Tethra, 
The  tongue  of  an  utterance  harsh  : 
I  am  the  beat  of  the  heart 
Of  the  inmost  darkness,  that  sends 
Night  to  the  world's  far  ends. 

I  am  the  raven  of  Tethra,  mate  of  Tethra,  slave  of  Tethra  : 
My  joy  is  the  storm 

That  strews  the  ground  with  the  fruit — 
Half-living,  bleeding,  and  bruised — 
From  life's  tree  shaken. 
I  desire  the  flame  of  battle  ; 
I  desire  gore-spouting  wounds  ; 
Flanks  that  are  gashed,  trunks  that  are  headless 
Heads  that  are  trunkless  in  piles  and  in  mounds  ; 

*  *  *  *  * 

Do  you  seek  to  bind  me,  ye  gods, 

And  the  deeds  of  me  only  beginning  ? 

Shall  I  gloat  over  triumphs  achieved 

When  the  greatest  remains  for  the  winning  ? 

Ye  boast  of  this  world  ye  have  made, 

This  corpse-built  world  ? 

Show  me  an  atom  thereof 

That  hath  not  suffered  and  struggled, 

And  yielded  its  life  to  Tethra  ? 

The  rocks  they  are  built  of  the  mould, 

And  the  mould  of  the  herb  that  was  green, 

And  the  beast  from  the  herb, 

And  man  from  the  beast, 

And  downward  in  hurried  confusion, 

Through  shapes  that  are  loathsome, 

Beast,  man,  worm,  pellmell, 

What  does  it  matter  to  me  ? 

I  I 


4*2  BOOK    V 


All  that  have  lived  go  back  to  the  mould, 
To  stiffen  through  ages  of  pain 
In  the  rock-rigid  realms  of  death. 

Ah,  ah  ! 

Loose  me,  ye  gods  ! 

I  stifle.  I  faint  in  your  hands  : 

Your  presence  benumbs  me  : 

An  effluence  from  you  exhales, 

Life  deadly  to  death, 

The  poison  whereof  overcomes  me, 

And  it  is  not  my  doom  to  perish  ; 

Gods  ye  have  slain  that  were  brave  and  mighty, 

But  Tethra  ye  never  shall  slay. 

Lu  •  We  will  not  loose  thee  till  thou  be  subdued — 
Thy  venom  quenched  a  little  ;  till  thy  song 
In  milder  music  sheathe  its  jagged  edge, 
And  choose  a  smoother  speech  that  shall  not  rend. 

The  Sword :  Ah,  ah  !  I  gash  !  Alas,  alas  ! 
That  even  of  me  should  soft  things  be  averred  ; 
I  am  the  song  unheard, 

Shall  ofttimes  lure  men's  falt'ring  souls  away  ; 
Soft  as  from  summer's  eve  the  tender  light 
Stolen  by  northern  night, 
My  gentle  call  they  gladly  shall  obey  : 
From  them  regretful  tears  shall  flow  not, 
But  eyes  shine  bright  with  hope  to  see  the  land  they 

know  not. 
Loose  me  !  loose  me  ! 


STANDISH   JAMES   O'GRADY 

MR.  STANDISH  O'GRADY  was  born  in  1846  at  Castletown 
Berehaven,  and  was  educated  in  Tipperary  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  where  he  won  a  classical  scholarship,  and  took 
his  degree  in  1868.  He  was  called  to  the  Bar,  and  practised 
that  profession  for  a  time,  but  ultimately  devoted  himself  to 


STAN  DISH  JAMES   O'GRADY  483 

literature  and  journalism.  He  is  now  owner  and  editor  of  the 
Kilkenny  Moderator  and  of  the  All-Ireland  Review,  the  latter 
being  the  only  literary  weekly  published  in  Ireland.  His 
HISTORY  OF  IRELAND  :  MYTHICAL  PERIOD  appeared  in  1878, 
and  though  totally  unrecognised  at  the  time,  except  by  one  or 
two  English  journals  such  as  The  Spectator,  it  proved  to  be  one 
of  the  epoch-making  books  of  modern  Irish  literature,  re-creating 
as  it  did  for  English  readers  the  heroic  character  of  Cuchullin, 
and  revealing  a  buried  world  of  legendary  splendour  and 
romance.  Something  of  the  same  kind  Mr.  O'Grady  has  done 
in  the  sphere  not  of  legend  but  of  authentic  history  in  his 
FLIGHT  OF  THE  EAGLE,  1897,  a  tale  of  Elizabethan  Ireland. 
Other  important  works  of  Mr.  O'Grady's  (who  must  not  be 
confounded  with  the  distinguished  Irish  scholar  Mr.  Standish 
Hayes  O'Grady)  are  FINN  AND  HIS  COMPANIONS,  1892  ;  THE 
COMING  OF  CUCULAIN,  1894  ;  and  ULRICK  THE  READY,  1896. 
Besides  having  done  imperishable  work  for  Irish  imaginative 
literature  in  prose,  Mr.  O'Grady  is  understood  to  have  burned 
a  pile  of  poetry.  These  waifs  have  escaped  destruction,  and 
appear  to  have  in  them  much  of  the  bardic  afflatus  which  fills 
the  mythical  and  Elizabethan  romances  of  the  same  author. 

LOUGH  BRAY 

Now  Memory,  false,  spendthrift  Memory, 

Disloyal  treasure-keeper  of  the  soul, 
This  vision  change  shall  never  wring  from  thee 

Nor  wasteful  years  effacing  as  they  roll. 
O  steel-blue  lake,  high  cradled  in  the  hills  ! 

O  sad  waves,  filled  with  little  sobs  and  cries  ! 
White  glistening  shingle,  hiss  of  mountain  rills, 

And  granite-hearted  walls  blotting  the  skies, 
Shine,  sob,  gleam,  gloom  for  ever  !     Oh,  in  me 

Be  what  you  are  in  Nature — a  recess — 
To  sadness  dedicate  and  mystery, 

Withdrawn,  afar,  in  the  soul's  wilderness. 
Still  let  my  thoughts,  leaving  the  worldly  roar 
Like  pilgrims,  wander  on  thy  haunted  shore. 

I  I  2 


484  BOOK    V 


I  GIVE  MY  HEART  TO  THEE 
i 

I  GIVE  my  heart  to  thee,  O  mother-land — 
I,  if  none  else,  recall  the  sacred  womb. 
•  I,  if  none  else,  behold  the  loving  eyes 
Bent  ever  on  thy  myriad  progeny 
Who  care  not  nor  regard  thee  as  they' go, 

0  tender,  sorrowing,  weeping,  hoping  land ! 

1  give  my  heart  to  thee,  O  mother-land. 

II 

I  give  my  heart  to  thee,  O  father-land, 
Fast-anchored  on  thine  own  eternal  soul, 
Rising  with  cloudy  mountains  to  the  skies. 

0  proud,  strong  land,  unstooping,  stern  of  rule, 
Me  rule  as  ever  ;  let  me  feel  thy  might  : 

Let  me  go  forth  with  thee  now  and  for  aye. 

1  give  my  heart  to  thee,  O  father-land. 

Ill 

I  give  my  heart  to  thee,  heroic  land — 
To  thee  or  in  thy  morning  when  the  Sun 
Flashed  on  thy  giant  limbs — thy  lurid  noon — 
Or  in  thy  depth  of  night,  fierce-thoughted  one — 
Wrestling  with  phantoms  of  thy  own  wild  soul, 
Or,  stone-still,  silent,  waiting  for  the  dawn, 
I  give  my  heart  to  thee,  heroic  land. 

IV 

l'  give  my  heart  to  thee,  ideal  land, 
Far-soaring  sister  of  the  starry  throng. 

0  fleet  of  wing,  what  journeyings  are  thine, 
What  goal,  what  god  attracts  thee  ?     What  unseen 
Glory  reflected  makes  thy  face  a  flame  ? 

Leave  me  not ;  where  thou  goest,  let  me  go. 

1  give  my  heart  to  thee,  ideal  land. 


A.  E:  485 


<A.  E.' 

SOME  dozen  years  ago  a  little  body  of  young  men  hired  a  room 
in  Dublin,  and  began  to  read  papers  to  one  another  on  the 
Vedas  and  the  Upanishads  and  the  Neo-Platonists,  and  on 
modem  mystics  and  spiritualists.  They  had  no  scholarship, 
and  they  spoke  and  wrote  badly,  but  they  discussed  great 
problems  ardently  and  simply  and  unconventionally,  as  men 
perhaps  discussed  great  problems  in  the  mediaeval  Universities. 
When  they  were  scattered  by  their  different  trades  and  pro- 
fessions, others  took  up  the  discussions  where  they  dropped 
them,  moving  the  meetings,  for  the  most  part,  from  back 
street  to  back  street ;  and  now  two  writers  of  genius— 
'A.  E.'  and  'John  Eglinton' — seem  to  have  found  among 
them,  without  perhaps  agreeing  with  them  in  ever)  thing,  that 
simplicity  of  mind  and  that  belief  in  high  things,  less  common 
in  Dublin  than  elsewhere  in  Ireland,  for  whose  lack  imagination 
perishes.  '  John  Eglinton  '  in  Two  ESSAYS  ON  THE  REMNANT 
and  in  the  essays  he  has  published  in  the  little  monthly  maga- 
zine they  print  and  bind  themselves,  analyses  the  spiritual 
elements  that  are  transforming  and  dissolving  the.  modern 
world  ;  while  '  A.  E.,'  in  HOMEWARD  :  SONGS  BY  THE  WAY 
and  in  THE  EARTH  BREATH,  repeats  over  again  the  revela- 
tion of  a  spiritual  world  that  has  been  the  revelation  of  mystics 
in  all  ages,  but  with  a  richness  of  colour  and  a  subtlety  of 
rhythm  that  are  of  our  age.  Plotinus  wrote  :  '  In  the  particular 
acts  of  human  life  it  is  not  the  interior  soul  and  the  true  man, 
but  the  exterior  shadow  of  the  man  alone,  which  laments  and 
weeps,  performing  his  part  on  the  earth,  as  in  a  more  ample 
and  extended  scene,  in  which  many  shadows  of  souls  and 
phantom  forms  appear  ; '  and  so  these  poems  cry  out  that  '  for 
every  deep  filled  with  stars  '  there  '  are  stars  and  deeps  within,' 
and  that  *  our  thought '  is  but  '  the  echo  of  a  deeper  being/ 
and  that '  we  kiss  because  God  once  for  beauty  sought  amid  a 
world  of  dreams,' and  that  we  rise  by 'the  symbol  charioted' 
'  through  loved  things '  to  '  lore's  own  ways.'  They  are  full 


486  BOOK    V 


of  the  sadness  that  has  fallen  upon  all  mystics,  when  they  have 
first  come  to  understand  that  there  is  an  invisible  beauty  from 
which  they  are  divided  by  visible  things.  How  can  one  be 
interested  in  the  rising  and  in  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  in 
the  work  men  do  under  the  sun,  when  the  mistress  that  one 
loves  is  hidden  behind  the  gates  of  death,  and  it  may  be 
behind  a  thousand  gates  beside — gate  beyond  gate  ? 

What  of  all  the  will  to  do  ? 

It  has  vanished  long  ago, 
For  a  dream -shaft  pierced  it  through 

From  the  Unknown  Archer's  bow. 

What  of  all  the  soul  to  think  ? 

Some  one  offered  it  a  cup 
Filled  with  a  diviner  drink  ; 

And  the  flame  has  burned  it  up. 

What  of  all  the  hope  to  climb  ? 

Only  in  the  self  we  grope 
To  the  misty  end  of  time  : 

Truth  has  put  an  end  to  hope. 

It  is  this  invisible  beauty  that  makes  the  planets  *  break  in 
woods  and  flowers  and  streams  '  and  '  shake  '  the  winds  from 
them  '  as  the  leaves  from  off  the  rose,'  and  that  '  kindles '  all 
souls  and  lures  them  *  through  the  gates  of  birth  and  death,' 
and  in  whose  heart  we  will  all  rest  when  *  the  shepherd  of  the 
ages  draws  his  misty  hordes  away  through  the  glimmering 
deeps  to  silence' and  to  'the  awful  fold.'  But  this  invisible 
beauty  kindles  evil  as  well  as  good,  for  its  shadow  is  '  the  fount 
of  shadowy  beauty '  that  pours  out  those  things  *  the  heart,'  the 
merely  mortal  part  of  us,  '  would  be,'  and  '  chases '  them  in 
'endless  flight.'  All  emotions  are  double,  for  either  we  choose 
'the  shadowy  beauty,'  and  our  soul  weeps,  or  the  invisible 
beauty  that  is  '  our  high  ancestral  self,'  and  the  body  weeps. 

These  poems,  the  most  delicate  and  subtle  that  any  Irish- 
man of  our  time  has  written,  seem  to  me  all  the  more  interest- 
ing because  their  writer  has  not  come  from  any  of  our  seats  of 
literature  and  scholarship,  but  from  among  sectaries  and 


<A.  E:  487 

visionaries  whose  ardour  of  belief  and  simplicity  of  mind  have 
been  his  encouragement  and  his  inspiration. 

W.  B.  YEATS. 

'A.  E.'  is  the  nom  de  plume  of  Mr.  George  W.  Russell.  He  was  born 
in  Lurgan,  1867,  and  is  author  of  two  small  volumes  of  verse  : — HOME- 
WARD: SONGS  BY  THE  WAY,  1894  (reissued  with  additional  poems  in 
America,  1896)  and  THE  EARTH  BREATH,  1897. 

SACRIFICE 

THOSE  delicate  wanderers— 

The  wind,  the  star,  the  cloud — • 
Ever  before  mine  eyes, 

As  to  an  altar  bowed, 
Light  and  dew-laden  airs 
Offer  in  sacrifice. 

The  offerings  arise  : 

Hazes  of  rainbow  light, 
Pure  crystal,  blue,  and  gold, 

Through  dreamland  take  their  flight ; 
And  'mid  the  sacrifice 
God  moveth  as  of  old. 

In  miracles  of  fire 

He  symbols  forth  His  days  ; 
In  gleams  of  crystal  light 

Reveals  what  pure  pathways 
Lead  to  the  soul's  desire, 
The  silence  of  the  height. 

DANA1 

I  AM  the  tender  voice  calling  *  Away,' 
Whispering  between  the  beatings  of  the  heart, 
And  inaccessible  in  dewy  eyes 
I  dwell,  and  all  unkissed  on  lovely  lips, 
Lingering  between  white  breasts  inviolate, 
And  fleeting  ever  from  the  passionate  touch 
I  shine  afar,  till  men  may  not  divine 


Dana  is  the  '  Mater  Deorum  '  of  the  Celtic  mythology. 


488  BOOK   V 


Whether  it  is  the  stars  or  the  beloved 

They  follow  with  rapt  spirit.     And  I  weave 

My  spells  at  evening,  folding  with  dim  caress, 

Aerial  arms,  and  twilight-dropping  hair, 

The  lonely  wanderer  by  shore  or  wood, 

Till  filled  with  some  vast  tenderness  he  yields, 

Feeling  in  dreams  for  the  dear  mother  heart 

He  knew  ere  he  forsook  the  starry  way, 

And  clings  there  pillowed  far  above  the  smoke 

And  the  dim  murmur  from  the  duns  of  men  ; 

I  can  enchant  the  trees  and  rocks,  and  fill 

The  dumb  brown  lips  of  earth  with  mystery, 

Make  them  reveal  or  hide  the  god.     I  breathe 

A  deeper  pity  than  all  love,  myself 

Mother  of  all,  but  without  hands  to  heal, 

Too  vast  and  vague — they  know  me  not !     But  yet 

I  am  the  heartbreak  over  fallen  things, 

The  sudden  gentleness  that  stays  the  blow  ; 

And  I  am  in  the  kiss  that  warriors  give 

Pausing  in  battle,  and  in  the  tears  that  fall 

Over  the  vanquished  foe  ;  and  in  the  highest 

Among  the  Danann  gods  I  am  the  last 

Council  of  mercy  in  their  hearts,  where  they 

Mete  justice  from  a  thousand  starry  thrones. 

SYMBOLISM 

Now  when  the  giant  in  us  wakes  and  broods, 
Filled  with  home-yearnings,  drowsily  he  flings 

From  his  deep  heart  high  dreams  and  mystic  moods, 
Mixed  with  the  memory  of  the  loved  earth-things  ; 

Clothing  the  vast  with  a  familiar  face, 

Reaching  his  right  hand  forth  to  greet  the  starry  race. 

Wondrously  near  and  clear  the  great  warm  fires 
Stare  from  the  blue  ;  so  shows  the  cottage  light 

To  the  field  labourer  whose  heart  desires 

The  old  folk  by  the  nook,  the  welcome  bright 

From  the  housewife  long  parted  from  at  dawn — 

So  the  star  villages  in  God's  great  depths  withdrawn. 


1A.  E?  489 

• 

Nearer  to  Thee,  not  by  delusion  led, 

Though  there  no  house-fires  burn  nor  bright  eyes  gaze  ; 
Y7e  rise,  but  by  the  symbol  charioted, 

Through  loved  things  rising  up  to  Love's  own  ways  ; 
By  these  the  soul  unto  the  vast  has  wings, 
And  sets  the  seal  celestial  on  all  mortal  things. 

JANUS 

IMAGE  of  beauty,  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 
Trembling  I  waken  to  a  mystery  ; 
How  through  one  door  we  go  to  life  or  death, 
By  spirit  kindled  or  the  sensual  breath. 

Image  of  beauty,  when  my  way  I  go, 
No  single  joy  or  sorrow  do  I  know  ; 
Elate  for  freedom  leaps  the  starry  power, 
The  life  which  passes  mourns  its  wasted  hour. 

And,  ah  !  to  think  how  thin  the  veil  that  lies 
Between  the  pain  of  hell  and  paradise  ! 
Where  the  cool  grass  my  aching  head  embowers, 
God  sings  the  lovely  carol  of  the  flowers. 

CONNLA'S  WELL  l 

A  CABIN  on  the  mountain-side  hid  in  a  grassy  nook, 
With  door  and  window  open  wide,  where  friendly  stars  may  look, 
The  rabbit  shy  can  patter  in,  the  winds  may  enter  free — 
Who  throng  around  the  mountain  throne  in  living  ecstasy. 

And  when  the  sun  sets  dimmed  in  eve,  and  purple  fills  the  air, 
I  think  the  sacred  hazel-tree  is  dropping  berries  there, 
From  starry  fruitage  waved  aloft  where  Connla's  well  o'erflows  ; 
For,  sure,  the  immortal  waters  run  through  every  wind  that  blows. 

1  '  Sinend,  daughter  of  Lodan  Lucharglan,  son  of  Ler,  out  of  the 
Land  of  Promise,  went  to  Connla's  Well,  which  is  under  sea,  to  behold  it. 
That  is  a  well  at  which  are  the  hazels  of  wisdom  and  inspirations,  that  is, 
the  hazels  of  the  science  of  poetry,  and  in  the  same  hour  their  fruit  and 
their  blossom  and  their  foliage  break  forth,  and  then  fall  upon  the  well  in 
the  same  shower,  which  raises  upon  the  water  a  royal  surge  of  purple.' 
THE  VOYAGE  OF  BRAN,  p  214. 


490  BOOK   V 


I  think,  when  night  towers  up  aloft  and  shakes  the  trembling  dew, 
How  every  high  and  lonely  thought  that  thrills  my  spirit  through 
Is  but  a  shining  berry  dropped  down  through  the  purple  air, 
And  from  the  magic  tree  of  life  the  fruit  falls  everywhere. 

OUR  THRONES  DECAY 

I  SAID  my  pleasure  shall  not  move  \ 

It  is  not  fixed  in  things  apart  ; 
Seeking  not  love— but  yet  to  love — 

I  put  my  trust  in  mine  own  heart. 

I  knew  the  fountain  of  the  deep 

Wells  up  with  living  joy,  unfed  ; 
Such  joys  the  lonely  heart  may  keep, 

And  love  grow  rich  with  love  unwed. 

Still  flows  the  ancient  fount  sublime  — 


But  ah  !  for  my  heart,  shed  tears,  shed  tears  ! 
Not  it,  but  love,  has  scorn  of  time — 
It  turns  to  dust  beneath  the  years. 

THE  THREE  COUNSELLORS 

IT  was  the  fairy  of  the  place, 

Moving  within  a  little  light, 
Who  touched  with  dim  and  shadowy  grace 

The  conflict  at  its  fever  height. 

• 
It  seemed  to  whisper  '  Quietness,' 

Then  quietly  itself  was  gone  : 
Yet  echoes  of  its  mute  caress 

Were  with  me  as  the  years  went  on. 

It  was  the  warrior  within 

Who  called  :  *  Awake  !  prepare  for  fight ! 
Yet  lose  not  memory  in  the  din  ; 

Make  of  thy  gentleness  thy  might ; 

'  Make  of  thy  silence  words  to  shake 
The  long-enthroned  kings  of  earth  : 

Make  of  thy  will  the  force  to  break 
Their  towers  of  wantonness  and  mirth.' 


<A.  E> 

It  was  the  wise  all-seeing  soul 

Who  counselled  neither  war  nor  peace  : 
*  Only  be  thou  thyself  that  goal 

In  which  the  wars  of  Time  shall  cease. 

INHERITANCE 

As  flow  the  rivers  to  the  sea 

Adown  from  rocky  hill  or  plain, 
A  thousand  ages  toiled  for  thee 

And  gave  thee  harvest  of  their  gain  ; 
And  weary  myriads  of  yore 
Dug  out  for  thee  earth's  buried  lore. 

The  shadowy  toilers  for  thee  fought, 

In  chaos  of  primeval  day, 
Blind  battles  with  they  knew  not  what ; 

And  each  before  he  passed  away 
Gave  clear  articulate  cries  of  woe  : 
Your  pain  is  theirs  of  long  ago. 

And  all  the  old  heart-sweetness  sung, 
The  joyous  life  of  man  and  maid 

In  forests  when  the  earth  was  young, 

In  rumours  round  your  childhood  strayed  : 

The  careless  sweetness  of  your  mind 

Comes  from  the  buried  years  behind. 

And  not  alone  unto  your  birth 

Their  gifts  the  weeping  ages  bore, 

The  old  descents  of  God  on  earth 

Have  dowered  thee  with  celestial  lore  : 

So,  wise,  and  filled  with  sad  and  gay, 

You  pass  into  the  further  day. 

THE  MEMORY  OF  EARTH 

IN  the  wet  dusk  silver  sweet, 

Down  the  violet-scented  ways, 
As  I  moved  with  quiet  feet 

I  was  met  by  mighty  days. 


491 


492  BOOK   V 


On  the  hedge  the  hanging  dew 

Glassed  the  eve  and  stars  and  skies  ; 

While  I  gazed  a  madness  grew 
Into  thundered  battle-cries. 

Where  the  hawthorn  glimmered  white, 
Flashed  the  spear  and  fell  the  stroke- 

Ah,  what  faces  pale  and  bright 
Where  the  dazzling  battle  broke  ! 

There  a  hero-hearted  queen 
With  young  beauty  lit  the  van  : 

Gone  !  the  darkness  flowed  between 
All  the  ancient  wars  of  man. 

While  I  paced  the  valley's  gloom, 
Where  the  rabbits  pattered  near, 

Shone  a  temple  and  a  tomb 
With  the  legend  carven  clear  : 

'  Time  put  by  a  myriad  fates 

That  her  day  might  dawn  in  glory  ; 

Death  made  wide  a  million  gates 
So  to  close  her  tragic  story! 


WILLIAM   BUTLER   YEATS 

FEW  poets  have  revised  and  retouched  their  work  more  than 
Mr.  Yeats,  and  this  may  perhaps  be  one  cause  of  the  singular 
unity  of  the  impression  which  it  leaves  upon  the  mind.  In 
the  final  edition  of  his  poems,  where  much  is  altered  and  much 
early  work  struck  out  altogether,  one  sees  naturally  but  little 
sign  of  the  immature  and  experimental  stages  which  every 
poet  must  go  through.  He  appears  to  have  struck  the  rock, 
and  the  water  flowed  ;  we  do  not  see  it  led  with  pain  and  toil 
from  distant  sources,  through  miry  channels,  and  by  feeble 
streamlets  into  its  true  bed.  Nor  is  this  merely  because 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  493 

Mr.  Yeats  has  pruned  away  his  early  work  so  remorselessly. 
His  first  printed  poem  was  THE  ISLAND  OF  STATUES,  which 
appeared  in  The  Dublin  University  Review  in  the  summer 
of  1885,  when  the  writer  was  just  nineteen  years  old.  It  is  a 
drama  of  magic  and  enchantment,  full  of  weird  and  picturesque 
effects,  and,  though  a  little  weak  in  its  handling  of  long  metres, 
containing  some  of  the  most  musical  and  beautiful  verse  Mr. 
Yeats  has  ever  written.  Act  II.  Sc.  3  opens  thus  : 

'  THE  ISLAND. — Flowers  of  manifold  colour  are  knee-deep 
before  a  gate  of  brass,  above  which,  in  a  citron-tinctured  sky, 
glimmer  a  few  stars.  At  intervals  come  mournful  blasts  from 
the  horns  among  the  flowers.' 

Then  follows  the  exquisite  lyric  included  in  his  last  volume 
under  the  title  of  '  The  Cloak,  the  Boat,  and  the  Shoe  : ' 

'  What  do  you  weave  so  fair  and  bright  ? ' 
*  The  cloak  I  weave  of  sorrow.' 

Lines  like  these  are  also  quite  in  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Yeats's 
later  work  : 

A  foolish  word  thou  gavest  me  ! 

For  each  within  himself  hath  all 

The  world,  within  his  folded  heart 

His  temple  and  his  banquet  hall. 


And  these  : 


Hear  thou,  O  daughter  of  the  days, 

****** 
Thou  shalt  outlive  thine  amorous  happy  time, 
And  dead  as  are  the  lovers  of  old  rime 
Shall  be  the  hunter-lover  of  thy  youth. 
Yet  ever  more,  through  all  thy  days  of  ruth, 
Shall  grow  thy  beauty  and  thy  dreamless  truth. 
As  a  hurt  leopard  fills  with  ceaseless  moan 
And  aimless  wanderings  the  woodlands  lone, 
Thy  soul  shall  be  ;  though  pitiless  and  bright 
It  is,  yet  it  shall  fail  thee  day  and  night 
Beneath  the  burden  of  the  infinite, 
In  those  far  years,  O  daughter  of  the  days. 


494  BOOK    V 


In  lines  such  as  the  following  there  is  perhaps  a  reminiscence 

of  Shelley: 

Sad  lady,  cease  ! 
I  rose,  I  rose 

From  the  dim  wood's  foundation — 
I  rose,  I  rose 

Where  in  white  exultation 
The  long  lily  blows.   .   .   . 

But  on  the  whole  it  may  be  said  that  Mr.  Yeats's  note  was 
from  the  very  beginning  both  singularly  strong  and  singularly 
original.  His  published  works,  at  any  rate,  tell  no  story  of  any 
period  of  discipleship.  It  is  remarkable  that  his  passion  for 
Ferguson's  poetry,  which  he  gave  expression  to  in  his  first 
published  prose  work,  and  which  brought  a  powerful  and 
enduring  influence  into  his  literary  development,  never 
coloured  his  style  and  manner  of  expression  in  the  slightest 
degree. 

The  influence  in  question  was  that  of  the  ancient  Celtic 
literature  and  mythology,  which  Mr.  Yeats  has  apprehended  in  a 
deeper  and  more  intimate  sense  than  even  Ferguson.  That  great 
writer  may  count  as  the  earliest  of  those  who  have  contributed 
to  what  I  think  can  fairly  be  described  as  the  supreme  task  of 
Irish  literature  in  the  present  day — the  task  of  leading  that  lite- 
rature to  strike  its  roots  into  the  Gaelic  past,  and  not  into  the 
mighty  tradition  of  England.  Ferguson  did  this  by  re-telling 
in  noble  verse  the  old  Gaelic  myths  and  heroic  tales.  But  he 
still  remains  a  man  of  the  nineteenth  century,  telling  us  about 
gods  and  heroes  of  the  prime.  With  Mr.  Yeats,  however,  the 
gods  and  heroes  are  no  longer  far-off — they  are  here  among  us, 
*  forms  more  real  than  living  man.'  They  are  even  so  melted 
into  the  imagination  of  the  poet  that  they  emerge  from  it  not 
as  '  symbols '  of  ideas  (as  the  phrases  of  modern  mysticism 
have  it),  but  the  very  ideas  themselves.  Niam  and  Caolte  and 
Cleena  of  the  Wave  are  no  mere  symbols,  no  devices  of  the 
intellect  to  represent  the  unintelligible — they  have  an  intensity 
of  spiritual  life  comparable  only  to  that  which,  in  effect,  beings 
of  the  same  order  possess  in  ancient  Irish  myth. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  495 

It  is  fortunate  indeed  that  Irish  mythology,  in  attracting 
Mr.  Yeats's  imagination,  laid  hold  of  something  which 
mythology  had  never  found  before — a  great  artist  to  absorb 
and  interpret  it.  This  is  a  new  thing  in  Irish  literature.  The 
Gaelic  bards  and  sagamen  had  the  creative  touch  and  musical 
utterance,  but  next  to  no  sense  of  the  profound  rhythms  of  life 
and  thought.  Moore  was  an  accomplished  mechanician  of  verse, 
but  could  rarely  produce  anything  outside  his  regular  stock  of 
tunes.  Ferguson  had  the  '  grand  manner,'  but  not  always  the 
sustained  and  arduous  intensity  of  poetic  passion  informing 
every  vibrating  line ;  and  Mangan,  who  had  this  intensity  at 
times,  fell — like  many  Irish  poets  of  high  natural  endowment — 
too  easily  into  the  trivial  and  commonplace  both  in  thought 
and  diction.  Mr.  Yeats,  however,  with  a  certain  reservation 
which  I  shall  refer  to  later,  is  an  artist  pur  sang.  Though  he 
has  deemed  much  of  his  work  not  worth  republishing,  I  do  not 
think  he  has  ever  written  one  feeble  or  worthless  passage — one 
that  is  not  alive  with  the  life  of  the  imagination,  and  that  does 
not  re-echo  in  some  degree  the  music  at  the  heart  of  things.  He 
has  in  this  way  set  a  shining  example  to  Irish  writers  of  this 
and  following  generations— he  has  set  the  standard  of  achieve- 
ment at  a  height  that  the  strongest  may  only  attain,  as  Mr. 
Yeats  attained  it,  by  strenuous,  unflinching  toil  and  an  ear  ever 
open  to  the  whisper  of  perfection. 

But  what  of  the  substance,  the  matter,  conveyed  to  us  by 
all  this  beautiful  art  ?  This  is  not  an  indifferent  question.  It 
cannot  be  answered  by  saying  that  Mr.  Yeats's  verse  lives 
and  shines  and  sings,  and  is  sufficiently  criticised  when  we 
show  that  it  does  so.  Art  is  to  help  us  to  live — not  to  live 
well  or  ill,  but  simply  to  live.  If,  however,  it  induces  bewildered 
or  unnatural  or  unwholesome  moods,  it  is  not  helping  us  towards 
life — but  towards  death.  On  the  other  hand,  life  is  more  vast 
and  varied  than  any  one  individual  or  any  one  epoch  can 
know.  The  poet  may  be  a  pioneer  on  its  dim  frontiers,  as  well 
as  a  cultivator  of  its  rich  fields  of  traditional  and  familiar  toil. 
Mr.  Yeats's  work  is  for  the  most  part  done  on  the  frontier  of 
life.  He  has  followed  up  doubtful  gleams,  interpreted  mysteries, 


496  BOOK   V 


made  himself  a  philosophy  of  dreams.  The  reader,  however, 
who  bestows  upon  Mr.  Yeats's  poetry  the  attention  it  deserves, 
will  perceive  that  his  mind  is  no  mere  Eolian  harp  answering 
to  the  faint  breathings  of  a  wind  from  another  world.  Behind 
Mr.  Yeats's  '  wizard  song  '  a  keen,  questioning,  co-ordinating 
intellect  is  at  work—  like  Baudelaire  he  tills  his  plot  of  ground 
*  avec  le  fer  de  la  raison.'  It  is  ill  translating  the  philosophy 
of  a  poet,  which  he  reveals  poetically,  into  scientific  language  ;  but 
it  may  perhaps  be  said,  without  overstraining  the  attempt  to 
formalise  and  define,  that  Mr.  Yeats — like  the  Oriental  mystics 
who  formulated  their  creed,  and  the  Celtic  mystics  who  did 
not,  regards  the  outer  world  as  a  creation  of  spiritual  activity — 
bids  us  cultivate  the  inward  life,  the  inward  vision,  as  the  sure 
path  to  truth  and  peace.  The  profound  and  beautiful  poem 
named  *  The  Two  Trees,'  which  is  included  in  the  selection 
here  given,  seems  to  me  to  contain  as  much  of  his  scheme  of 
thought  as  can  be  put  into  form  so  compressed.  The  idea  is 
of  course  in  itself  neither  new  nor  rare  ;  but  what  is  rare  is 
Mr.  Yeats's  firm  grasp  of  it,  his  rich  and  subtle  illustration  of 
it,  the  new  and  beautiful  vesture  of  imagination  he  has  found 
for  it. 

Mr.  Yeats  has  still,  it  may  be  hoped,  a  long  literary  career 
before  him,  and  many  new  fields  of  work  to  enter  upon.  But 
it  may  be  observed  that  the  ground  he  has  already  covered 
is  not  wanting  in  extent  and  variety.  Poems  like  '  Father 
Gilligan  '  or  <  The  Old  Pensioner  '  or  the  '  Fiddler  of  Dooney ' 
show  a  command  of  simple  objective  emotion  which  may  yet 
be  developed  in  work  of  what  is  called  a  more  '  popular '  charac- 
ter than  Mr.  Yeats  has  so  far  done.  Some  love-poems,  more- 
over, such  as  '  When  you  are  Old  '  or  '  The  Cloths  of  Heaven,' 
have  for  all  their  rare  and  spiritual  grace  a  strain  of  human 
passion  more  intense  than  that  of  many  lyrists  who  have  won 
fame  by  singing  of  nothing  but  love.  Whether  these  qualities 
will  ever  yield  work  of  great  tragic  power  is  a  question  that  the 
future  must  decide.  Mr.  Yeats's  dramatic  experiments  appear 
to  testify  to  some  impulse  in  this  direction.  His  first  published 
work  and  his  second  were  both  in  dramatic  form,  and  his 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  497 

COUNTESS  CATHLEEN  and  the  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  are 
not  only  dramas,  but  have  attained  the  natural  end  of  a  dra'ma 
— that  of  being  acted.  Yet  I  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Yeats's 
dramatic  work  forms,  so  far,  an  exception  to  the  general  rule  that 
good  drama  can  only  be  written  by  poets  both  gifted  with  the 
dramatic  imagination  and  intimately  familiar  with  the  stage. 
In  dramatic  composition  Mr.  Yeats  appears  to  be  moving 
about  in  worlds  not  realised.  There  are,  no  doubt,  dramatists 
of  the  'literary'  school,  who  seem  to  ignore  the  fact  that  in 
assuming  dramatic  form  a  poem  also  assumes  certain  stringent 
laws  and  responsibilities  foreign  to  other  forms  of  poetry.  I 
grant  that  if  d'Annunzio,  for  instance,  is  a  dramatist,  so  is 
Mr.  Yeats  ;  and  I  grant  also  that  a  sort  of  pageant  accom- 
panied by  recitative  may  be  a  legitimate  and  interesting  form 
of  art,  so  long  as  it  is  kept  strictly  within  its  own  conventions. 
Yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  Mr.  Yeats's  dramatic  enterprises 
are  a  step  in  the  wrong  direction,  or>ather  I  should  say  a  step 
for  which  a  certain  training  and  discipline  are  needed  that  his 
talent  has  not  hitherto  undergone. 

This  is  one  reservation  I  have  to  make  in  my  admiration 
for  a  poet  whom  I  consider  the  first  of  living  writers  in  the 
English  language.  Another,  and  a  much  slighter  one,  concerns 
itself  with  his  occasional  use  of  terms  which  are  purely  symbolic 
and  not  vitalised  by  the  imagination.  Probably  Mr.  Yeats  has 
caught  this  habit  from  his  study  of  Blake — Blake,  who  might 
have  left  volumes  of  immortal  verse  had  not  his  intellect 
mastered  his  imagination  and  led  him  into  limitless  deserts  of 
dry  symbolism.  Mr.  Yeats's  imagination,  as  I  have  already 
said,  is  usually  supreme  in  these  matters  ;  it  burns  up  the 
symbol,  and  a  winged  creature  soars  singing  from  the  flame. 
But  the  mystic  in  him  is  sometimes,  especially  in  his  later  work, 
found  adoring  the  mere  stigmata  of  mysticism  ;  and  then  one 
thinks  with  dismay  that  a  finer  and  stronger  genius  than 
Blake's  may  some  day  lose  itself  in  that  dreary  waste  inhabited 
by  Los  and  Ore  and  Enitharmion. 

But  these  forebodings  soon  vanish  when  one  hears  again 
the  *  lake  water  lapping  '  on  the  shores  of  Innisfree,  or  the  mur- 

K  K 


498  BOOK    V 


muring  of  the  bell-branch  which  Mr.  Yeats  has  taken  from  the 
hand  of  nameless  singers  who  moved  the  heart  of  Ireland  a 
thousand  years  ago — 

It  charmed  away  the  merchant  from  his  guile, 
And  turned  the  farmer's  memory  from  his  cattle, 
And  hushed  in  sleep  the  roaring  ranks  of  battle, 

For  all  who  heard  it  dreamed  a  little  while. 

T.    W.    ROLLESTON. 

W.  B.  Yeats  was  born  in  Dublin,  June  13,  1866  ;  the  eldest  son  of 
J.  B.  Yeats,  R.H.A.,  a  well-known  Irish  artist.  He  was  educated  chiefly 
at  the  High  School,  Harcourt  Street,  Dublin,  but  spent  much,  of  his  early 
life  in  the  County  Sligo,  where  his  grandparents  lived.  The  scenery  of  the 
Rosses  has  entered  deeply  into  his  poetry,  as  those  who  know  that  region 
will  readily  perceive.  In  1885  he  published  THE  ISLAND  OF  STATUES,  a 
romantic  drama,  in  The  Dublin  University  Revie^l>.  MOSADA,  a  short 
dramatic  piece,  was  published  in  the  same  year  as  a  brochure  by  Sealy 
Bryers  and  Walker,  Dublin.  The  WANDERINGS  OF  OISIN  AND  OTHER 
POEMS  appeared  in  1888  and  the  COUNTESS  CATHLEEN  in  1892.  His 
collected  poems  have  appeared  in  two  editions,  the  latest  in  1899,  and  the 
latter  year  saw  also  the  publication  of  the  WIND  AMONG  THE  REEDS. 
The  CELTIC  TWILIGHT  and  the  SECRET  ROSE  are  volumes  of  prose  tales 
and  sketches.  Mr.  Yeats  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  foundation  of  the 
Irish  Literary  Societies  of  Dublin  and  of  London,  under  the  auspices  of  the 
former  of  which  his  COUNTESS  CATHLEEN  was  acted  in  1899,  at  the 
Antient  Concert  Rooms  in  Dublin,  in  connection  with  the  enterprise  known 
as  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre.  In  1892  Mr.  Yeats  collaborated  with  Mr. 
E.  J.  Ellis  in  bringing  out  a  sumptuous  edition  of  the  works  of  William 
Blake,  with  a  memoir  and  an  exposition  of  Blake's  philosophy  (Quaritch). 

THE  HOSTING  OF  THE  SIDHE 

THE  host  is  riding  from  Knocknarea 
And  over  the  grave  of  Clooth-na-bare  ; 
Caolte  tossing  his  burning  hair, 

And  Niamh  calling  :  Away,  come  away  : 

Empty  your  heart  of  its  mortal  dream. 

The  winds  awaken,  the  leaves  whirl  round, 
Our  cheeks  are  pale,  our  hair  is  unbound, 

Our  breasts  are  heaving,  our  eyes  are  a-gleam, 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  499 

Our  arnts  are  waving,  our  lips  are  apart ; 

And  if  any  gaze  on  our  rushing  band, 

We  come  between  him  and  the  deed  of  his  hand — 
We  come  between  him  and  the  hope  of  his  heart. 
The  host  is  rushing  'twixt  night  and  day, 

And  where  is  there  hope  or  deed  as  fair  ? 

Caolte  tossing  his  burning  hair, 
And  Niamh  calling  :  Away,  come  away. 


MICHAEL  ROBARTES  REMEMBERS  FORGOTTEN  BEAUTY 

WHEN  my  arms  wrap  you  round,  I  press 

My  heart  upon  the  loveliness 

That  has  long  faded  from  the  world  ; 

The  jewelled  crowns  that  kings  have  hurled 

In  shadowy  pools,  when  armies  fled  ; 

The  love-tales  wove  with  silken  thread 

By  dreaming  ladies  upon  cloth 

That  has  made  fat  the  murderous  moth  ; 

The  roses  that  of  old  time  were 

Woven  by  ladies  in  their  hair ; 

The  dew-cold  lilies  ladies  bore 

Through  many  a  sacred  corridor, 

Where  such  grey  clouds  of  incense  rose 

That  only  the  gods'  eyes  did  not  close  : 

For  that  pale  breast  and  lingering  hand 

Come  from  a  more  dream-heavy  land — 

A  more  dream-heavy  hour  than  this. 

And  when  you  sigh  from  kiss  to  kiss 

I  hear  white  Beauty  sighing,  too, 

For  hours  when  all  must  fade  like  dew, 

But  flame  on  flame,  deep  under  deep, 

Throne  over  throne,  where  in  half-sleep 

Their  swords  upon  their  iron  knees 

Brood  her  high  lonely  mysteries. 


KK2 


500  BOOK   V 


THE  ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD 

WHO  dreamed  that  beauty  passes  like  a  dream  ? 
For  these  red  lips,  with  all  their  mournful  pride, 
Mournful  that  no  new  wonder  may  betide, 

Troy  passed  away  in  one  high  funeral  gleam. 
And  Usna's  children  died. 

We  and  the  labouring  world  are  passing  by  : 
Amid  men's  souls,  that  waver  and  give  place, 
Like  the  pale  waters  in  their  wintry  race, 

Under  the  passing  stars,  foam  of  the  sky 
Lives  on  this  lonely  face. 

Bow  down,  archangels,  in  your  dim  abode  : 
Before  you  were,  or  any  hearts  to  beat, 
Weary  and  kind  one  lingered  by  His  seat  \ 

He  made  the  world  to  be  a  grassy  road 
Before  her  wandering  feet. 


THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 

I  WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  built  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made  ; 

Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey-bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I   shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes  dropping 

slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where   the  cricket 

sings 

There  midnight's  all  a-glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 

I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore  ; 

While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements  grey, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  501 


WHEN  YOU  ARE  OLD 

WHEN  you  are  old  and  grey  and  full  of  sleep, 
And  nodding  by  the  fire,  take  down  this  book, 
And  slowly  read,  and  dream  of  the  soft  look 

Your  eyes  had  once,  and  of  their  shadows  deep  ; 

How  many  loved  your  moments  of  glad  grace, 
And  loved  your  beauty  with  love  false  or  true  ! 
But  one  man  loved  the  pilgrim  soul  in  you, 

And  loved  the  sorrows  of  your  changing  face. 

And  bending  down  beside  the  glowing  bars 
Murmur,  a  little  sadly,  how  love  fled 
And  paced  upon  the  mountains  overhead, 

And  hid  his  face  amid  a  crowd  of  stars. 


A  DREAM  OF  A  BLESSED  SPIRIT 

ALL  the  heavy  days  are  over  ; 

Leave  the  body's  coloured  pride 
Underneath  the  grass  and  clover, 

With  the  feet  laid  side  by  side. 

One  with  her  are  mirth  and  duty  ; 

Bear  the  gold-embroidered  dress, 
For  she  needs  not  her  sad  beauty, 

To  the  scented  oaken  press. 

Hers  the  kiss  of  Mother  Mary, 
The  long  hair  is  on  her  face  ; 

Still  she  goes  with  footsteps  wary, 
Full  of  earth's  old  timid  grace  : 

With  white  feet  of  angels  seven 
Her  white  feet  go  glimmering ; 

And  above  the  deep  of  heaven, 
Flame  on  flame  and  wing  on  wing. 


502  BOOK   V 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  THE  OLD  PENSIONER 

I  had  a  chair  at  every  hearth, 
When  no  one  turned  to  see, 

With  «  Look  at  that  old  fellow  there 
And  who  may  he  be  ? ' 

And  therefore  do  I  wander  now, 
And  the  fret  lies  on  me. 


The  roadside  trees  keep  murmuring- 
Ah  !  wherefore  murmur  ye, 

As  in  the  old  days  long  gone  by, 
Green  oak  and  poplar  tree  ? 

The  well-known  faces  are  all  gone, 
And  the  fret  lies  on  me. 


THE  Two  TREES 

BELOVED,  gaze  in  thine  own  heart, 

The  holy  tree  is  growing  there  ; 
From  joy  the  holy  branches  start, 

And  all  the  trembling  flowers  they  bear. 
The  changing  colours  of  its  fruit 

Have  dowered  the  stars  with  merry  light 
The  surety  of  its  hidden  root 

Has  planted  quiet  in  the  night ; 
The  shaking  of  its  leafy  head 

Has  given  the  waves  their  melody, 
And  made  my  lips  and  music  wed, 

Murmuring  a  wizard  song  for  thee. 
There,  through  bewildered  branches,  go 

Winged  Loves  borne  on  in  gentle  strife, 
Tossing  and  tossing  to  and  fro 

The  flaming  circle  of  our  life. 
When  looking  on  their  shaken  hair, 

And  dreaming  how  they  dance  and  dart, 
Thine  eyes  grow  full  of  tender  care  : 

Beloved,  gaze  in  thine  own  heart. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  503 

Gaze  no  more  in  the  bitter  glass 

The  demons,  with  their  subtle  guile, 
Lift  up  before  us  when  they  pass, 

Or  only  gaze  a  little  while  ; 
For  there  a  fatal  image  grows, 

With  broken  boughs  and  blackened  leaves, 
And  roots  half  hidden  under  snows 

Driven  by  a  storm  that  ever  grieves. 
For  all  things  turn  to  barrenness 

In  the  dim  glass  the  demons  hold — 
The  glass  of  outer  weariness, 

Made  when  God  slept  in  times  of  old. 
There,  through  the  broken  branches,  go 

The  ravens  of  unresting  thought  ; 
Peering  and  flying  to  and  fro, 

To  see  men's  souls  bartered  and  bought. 
When  they  are  heard  upon  the  wind, 

And  when  they  shake  their  wings,  alas  ! 
Thy  tender  eyes  grow  all  unkind  : 

Gaze  no  more  in  the  bitter  glass. 

THE  ISLAND  OF  SLEEP 
From  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  OisfN 

FLED  foam  underneath  us  and  round  us,  a  wandering  and  milky 

smoke, 
High  as  the  saddle-girth,  covering  away  from  our  glances  the 

tide  ; 
And  those  that  fled,  and  that  followed,  from  the  foam-pale  distance 

broke  ; 

The  immortal  desire  of  immortals  we  saw  in  their  faces,  and 
sighed. 

I   mused  on    the  chase  with   the  Fenians,   and  Bran,   Sgeolan 
Lomair, 

And  never  a  song  sang  Niam,  and  over  my  finger-tips 
Came  now  the  sliding  of  tears  and  sweeping  of  mist-cold  hair 

And  now  the  warmth  of  sighs,  and  after  the  quiver  of  lips. 


504  BOOK   V 


Were  we  days  long  or  hours  long  in  riding,  when  rolled  in  a  grisly 

peace, 

An  isle  lay  level  before  us,  with  dripping  hazel  and  oak  ? 
And  we  stood  on  a  sea's  edge  we  saw  not  ;  for  whiter  than  new- 
washed  fleece 

Fled  foam  underneath  us  and  round  us,  a  wandering  and  milky 
smoke. 

And  we  rode  on  the  plains  of  the  sea's  edge  —the  sea's  edge  barren 

and  grey, 

Grey  sand  on  the  green  of  the  grasses  and  over  the  dripping  trees, 
Dripping  and  doubling    landward,  as  though  they  would  hasten 

away 

Like  an  army  of  old  men  longing  for  rest  from  the  moan  of  the 
seas. 

But  the  trees  grew  taller  and  closer,   immense  in  their  wrinkling 

bark; 
Dropping— a  murmurous  dropping — old  silence  and   that  one 

sound  ; 

For  no  live  creatures  lived  there,  no  weasels  moved  in  the  dark  ; 
Long  sighs  arose  in  our  spirits,  beneath  us  bubbled  the  ground. 

And  the  ears  of  the  horse  went  sinking  away  in  the  hollow  night, 
For,  as  drift  from  a  sailor  slow  drowning  the  gleams  of  the  world 

and  the  sun, 
Ceased  on  our  hands  and  our  faces,  on  hazel  and  oak  leaf,  the 

light, 

And  the  stars  were  blotted  above  us,  and  the  whole  of  the  world 
was  one. 

Till  the  horse  gave  a  whinny  ;  for,  cumbrous  with  stems  of  the 

hazel  and  oak, 
A  valley  flowed  down  from  his  hoofs,  and  there  in  the  long  grass 

lay, 

Under  the  starlight  and  shadow,  a  monstrous  slumbering  folk, 
Their  naked  and  gleaming  bodies  poured  out  and  heaped  in  the 
way. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  505 

And  by  them   were  arrow  and  war-axe,  arrow  and  shield  and 

blade  ; 
And  dew-blanched  horns,  in  whose  hollow  a  child  of  three  years 

old 

Could  sleep  on  a  couch  of  rushes,  and  all  inwrought  and  inlaid, 
And  more  comely  than  man  can  make  them  with  bronze  and 
silver  and  gold. 

And  each  of  the  huge  white  creatures  was  huger  than  fourscore 

men  ; 
The  tops  of  their  ears  were  feathered,  their  hands  were  the  claws 

of  birds, 
And,  shaking  the  plumes  of  the  grasses  and  the  leaves  of  the 

mural  glen, 

The   breathing   came  from  those  bodies,  long-warless,    grown 
whiter  than  curds. 

The  wood  was  so  spacious  above  them  that  He  who  had  stars  for 

His  flocks 

Could  fondle  the  leaves  with  His  fingers,  nor  go  from  His  dew- 
cumbered  skies  ; 
So  long  were  they  sleeping,  the  owls  had  builded  their  nests  in 

their  locks, 
Filling  the  fibrous  dimness  with  long  generations  of  eyes. 

And  over  the  limbs  and  the  valley  the  slow  owls  wandered  and 

came, 

Now  in  a  place  of  star-fire,  and  now  in  a  shadow-place  wide  ; 
And  the  chief  of  the  huge  white  creatures,  his  knees  in  the  soft 

star-flame, 
Lay  loose  in  a  place  of  shadow  ;  we  drew  the  reins  by  his  side. 

Golden  the  nails  of  his  bird-claws,  flung  loosely  along  the  dim 

ground  ; 
In  one  was  a  branch  soft-shining,  with  bells  more  many  than 

sighs, 

In  midst  of  an  old  man's  bosom  ;  owls  ruffling  and  pacing  around 
Sidled  their  bodies  against  him,  filling  the  shade  with  their  eyes. 


506  BOOK   V 


And   my   gaze   was  thronged  with  the  sleepers  ;  no,   neither  in 

house  of  a  cann 
In  a  realm  where  the  handsome  are  many,  or  in  glamours  by 

demons  flung, 
Are  faces  alive  with  such  beauty  made  known  to  the  salt  eye  of 

man, 

Yet  weary  with  passions  that  faded  when  the  seven-fold   seas 
were  young. 

And  I  gazed  on  the  bell-branch,  sleep's  forbear,  far  sung  by  the 

Sennachies. 
I  saw  how  those  slumberers,  grown  weary,  there  camping   in 

grasses  deep, 

Of  wars  with  the  wide  world  and  pacing  the  shores  of  the  wander- 
ing seas, 

Laid  hands  on  the  bell-branch  and  swayed  it,  and  fed  of  un- 
human  sleep 

Snatching  the  horn  of  Niam,  I  blew  a  lingering  note  ;r 

Came  sound  from  those  monstrous  sleepers,  a  sound  like  the 

stirring  of  flies. 
He,   shaking   the  fold  of  his  lips,  and  heaving  the  pillar  of  his 

throat, 
Watched  me  with  mournful  wonder  out  of  the  wells  of  his  eyes. 

I  cried,  '  Come  out  of  the  shadow,  cann  of  the  ails  of  gold  ! 

And  tell  of  your  goodly  household  and  the  goodly  works  of  your 

hands, 

That  we  may  muse  in  the  starlight  and  talk  of  the  battles  of  old. 
Your  questioner,  Oisin,  is  worthy  ;  he  comes  from  the  Fenian 
lands.3 

Hah  open  his  eyes  were,  and  held  me,  dull  with  the  smoke  of  their 

dreams ; 

His  lips  moved  slowly  in  answer,  no  answer  out  of  them  came  ; 
Then  he  swayed  in  his  fingers  the  bell-branch,  slow  dropping  a 

sound  in  faint  streams 

Softer  than  snow-flakes  in  April  and  piercing  the  marrow  like 
flame. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER    YEATS  507 

Wrapt  in  the  wave  of  that  music,  with  weariness  more  than  of 

earth, 
The  moil  of  my  centuries  filled  me  ;  and  gone  like  a  sea-covered 

stone 
Were  the  memories  of  the  whole  of  my  sorrow  and  the  memories 

of  the  whole  of  my  mirth, 

And  a  softness  came  from  the  starlight  and  filled  me  full  to  the 
bone. 

In  the  roots  of  the  grasses,  the  sorrels,  I  laid  my  body  as  low  ; 
And  the  pearl-pale   Niam  lay  by  me,  her  brow  on  the  midst  of 

my  breast  ; 
And  the  horse  was  gone  in  the  distance,  and  years  after  years  'gan 

flow ; 

Square  leaves  of  the  ivy  moved  over  us,  binding  us  down  to  our 
rest. 

And,  man  of  the  many  white  croziers,  a  century  there  I  forgot 
How  the  fetlocks  drip  blood  in  the  battle,  when  the  fallen  on 

fallen  lie  rolled  ; 
How  the  falconer  follows  the  falcon  in  the  weeds  ot  the  heron's 

plot  ; 

And  the  names  of  the  demons  whose  hammers  made  armour  for 
Conhor  of  old. 

And,  man  of  the  many  white  croziers,  a  century  there  I  forgot 
That  the  spear-shaft  is  made  out  of  ashwood,  the  shield  out  of 

ozier  and  hide  ; 
How  the  hammers  spring  on  the  anvil,  on  the  spear-head's  burning 

spot; 
How  the  slow  blue-eyed  oxen  of  Finn  low  sadly  at  evening  tide. 

But  in  dreams,  mild  man  of  the  croziers,  driving  the  dust  with  their 

throngs, 
Moved  round  me,  of  seamen  or  landsmen,  all  who  are  winter 

tales  ; 
Came  by  me  the  canns  of  the  Red  Branch,  with  roaring  of  laughter 

and  songs, 

Or  moved  as   they  moved  once,  love-making  or  piercing  the 
tempest  with  sails. 


508  BOOK    V 


Came  Blanid,  MacNessa,  tall  Fergus,  who  feastward  of  old  time 

slunk, 
Cook  Barach,  the  traitor  ;  and  warward,  the  spittle  on  his  beard 

never  dry, 

Dark  Balor,  as  old  as  a  forest,  car-borne,  his  mighty  head  sunk 
Helpless,  men  lifting  the  lids  of  his  weary  and  death-making  eye. 

And  by  me,  in  soft  red  raiment,  the  Fenians  moved  in  loud  streams, 
And  Crania,  walking  and  smiling,  sewed  with  her  needle  of  bone. 

So  lived  I  and  lived   not,  so  wrought  I  and  wrought  not,  with 

creatures  of  dreams, 
In  a  long  iron  sleep,  as  a  fish  in  the  water  goes  dumb  as  a  stone. 


BOOK   VI 


SIR   AUBREY   DE   VERE 

SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE,  among  whose  schoolfellows  at 
Harrow  were  Byron  and  Sir  Robert  Peel,  was,  like  his  friend 
Wordsworth,  from  childhood  a  lover  of  the  mountains  and  the 
woods,  and  the  Rotha  was  for  him  a  stream  of  inspiration 
more  sweet  than  Castaly.  An  Irishman  by  birth,  his  natural 
sympathies  found  expression  in  the  fine  series  of  sonnets — 
described  by  Wordsworth  as  '  the  most  perfect  of  our  age  '- 
dealing  with  events  in  Irish  history  and  scenes  of  Irish  land- 
scape ;  while  to  the  country  of  his  earlier  ancestors  he  paid  a 
noble  poetic  tribute  in  MARY  TUDOR,  a  drama  worthy  comparison 
with  the  Histories  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 
In  the  delineation  of  Queen  Mary  we  possess  a  portrait  the 
most  arresting  that  the  modern  drama  has  to  offer— a  portrait  at 
once  human  and  royal,  at  once  tragic  and  convincing.  'The 
author  of  MARY  TUDOR,'  says  Mr.  De  Vere,  *  used  to  affirm  that 
most  of  the  modern  historians  had  mistaken  a  part,  and  that 
the  smaller  part,  of  the  sad  Queen's  character  for  the  whole  of 
it.'  Presented  by  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere,  the  contrasted  figures 
of  the  lonely  Mary,  distraught  indeed,  but  no  impossible 
Fury,  and  of  the  gentle-hearted  Jane  Grey,  innocent  victim  of 
an  unkind  destiny,  must  take  their  place  in  the  gallery  of 
English  Queens  painted  by  the  masters.  Since  no  room  can 
be  found  for  selections  from  the  De  Vere  dramas,  a  single 
passage  from  MARY  TUDOR  may  rightly  be  given  here.  Lady 


510  BOOK   VI 


Jane,  a  few   moments    before   her    execution,    takes  her   last 
farewell  of  her  weeping  mother. 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ? — they  have  left  me  little — 

What  slight  memorial  through  soft  tears  to  gaze  on  ? 

This  bridal  ring — the  symbol  of  past  joy  ? 

I  cannot  part  with  it ;  upon  this  ringer 

It  must  go  down  into  the  grave      Perchance 

After  long  years  some  curious  hand  may  find  it, 

Bright,  like  our  better  hopes,  amid  the  dust, 

And  piously,  with  a  low  sigh,  replace  it. 

Here,  take  this  veil,  and  wear  it  for  my  sake. 

And  take  this  winding-sheet  to  him,  and  this 

Small  handkerchief,  so  wetted  with  my  tears, 

To  wipe  the  death- damp  from  his  brow.     This  kiss — 

And  this— my  last  — print  on  his  lips,  and  bid  him 

Think  of  me  to  the  last,  and  wait  my  spirit. 

Farewell,  my  mother  !     Farewell,  dear,  dear  mother  ! 

These  terrible  moments  I  must  pass  in  prayer  — 

For  the  dying — for  the  dead  !     Farewell  !  farewell ! 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  in  this  play — and  it  is  no  slight  dramatic 
achievement— enlists  our  sympathies  for  Jane  Grey,  yet  gives  us 
to  feel  that  with  Mary  we  visit  higher  heights  and  lower  depths 
of  tragedy.  Both  in  MARY  TUDOR  and  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere's 
ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT  the  weight  of  a  great  subject  is  fully 
sustained,  the  action  is  spaciously  planned,  the  verse  moves 
with  stately  grace.  But  our  age  has  set  its  face  against  the 
drama,  and  it  may  perhaps  be  counted  fortunate  that  in  a 
literary  form  so  popular  as  the  sonnet  the  De  Veres  have 
graven  for  themselves  a  lasting  memorial.  There  are  sonnets 
by  father  and  by  son  that  anthologies  centuries  hence  will 
reproduce.  Sonnets  like  Sir  Aubrey's  entitled  '  The  Shannon,' 
or  'Spanish  Point,'  or  'The  Rock  of  Cashel,'  or  Mr.  De  Vere's 
*  Sorrow '  or  '  The  Sun  God,'  must  remain  among  our 
permanent  poetical  treasures. 

W.  MACNEILE  DIXON. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere,  Bart.,  born  1788,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  Vere 
Hunt,  of  Curragh  Chase,  County  Limerick,  Iteland.  His  father  afterwards 
took  the  name  of  De  Vere  as  a  descendant  of  De  Vere,  fifteenth  Earl  of 


Sffi  AUBREY  DE    VERE  511 

Oxford.  He  published  JULIAM  THE  APOSTATE,  a  drama,  1822  ;  THE  DUKE 
OF  MERCIA,  an  historical  drama,  and  THE  LAMENTATIONS  OF  IRELAND, 
1823  ;  THE  SONG  OF  FAITH,  DEVOUT  EXERCISES  AND  SONNETS,  1842. 
MARY  TUDOR,  an  historical  drama  (written  1844),  was  published  after  the 
author's  death,  and  without  his  final  revision,  in  1847.  He  died  in  1846. 


GOUGANE  BARRA 

NOT  beauty  which  men  gaze  on  with  a  smile, 
Not  grace  that  wins,  no  charm  of  form  or  love, 
Dwelt  with  that  scene.     Sternly  upon  my  view 
And  slowly — as  the  shrouding  clouds  awhile 
Disclosed  the  beetling  crag  and  lonely  isle — 

From  their  dim  lake  the  ghostly  mountains  grew, 
Lit  by  one  slanting  ray.     An  eagle  flew 
From  out  the  gloomy  gulf  of  the  defile, 
Like  some  bad  spirit  from  Hades.     To  the  shore 
Dark  waters  rolled,  slow-heaving,  with  dull  moan  ; 
The  foam-flakes  hanging  from  each  livid  stone 
Like  froth  on  deathful  lips  ;  pale  mosses  o'er 
The  shattered  cell  crept,  as  an  orphan  lone 
Clasps  his  cold  mother's  breast  when  life  is  gone. 


LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS 

SOME  laws  there  are  too  sacred  for  the  hand 
Of  man  to  approach  :  recorded  in  the  blood 
Of  patriots,  before  which,  as  the  Rood 

Of  faith,  devotional  we  take  our  stand  ; 

Time-hallowed  laws  !     Magnificently  planned 
When  Freedom  was  the  nurse  of  public  good, 
And  Power  paternal  :  laws  that  have  withstood 

All  storms,  unshaken  bulwarks  of  the  land  ! 

Free  will,  frank  speech,  an  undissembling  mind, 
Without  which  Freedom  dies  and  laws  are  vain,  • 
On  such  we  found  our  rights,  to  such  we  cling  ; 

In  them  shall  power  his  surest  safeguard  find. 
Tread  them  not  down  in  passion  or  disdain  ; 
Make  man  a  reptile,  he  will  turn  and  sting. 


512  BOOK   VI 


THE  ROCK  OF  CA*SHEL 

ROYAL  and  saintly  Cashel !    I  would  gaze 

Upon  the  wreck  of  thy  departed  powers 

Not  in  the  dewy  light  of  matin  hours, 
Nor  the  meridian  pomp  of  summer's  blaze, 
But  at  the  close  of  dim  autumnal  days, 

When  the  sun's  parting  glance,  through  slanting  showers, 

Sheds  o'er  thy  rock-throned  battlements  and  towers 
Such  awful  gleams  as  brighten  o'er  Decay's 
Prophetic  cheek.     At  such  a  time  methinks 

There  breathes  from  thy  lone  courts  and  voiceless  aisles 
A  melancholy  moral ;  such  as  sinks 

On  the  lone  traveller's  heart  amid  the  piles 
Of  vast  Persepolis  on  her  mountain  stand, 
Or  Thebes  half  buried  in  the  desert  sand. 

THE  SHANNON 

RIVER  of  billows,  to  whose  mighty  hear 
The  tide-wave  rushes  of  the  Atlantic  Sea  ; 
River  of  quiet  depths,  by  cultured  lea, 
Romantic  wood  or  city's  crowded  mart  ; 
River  of  old  poetic  founts,  which  start 
From  their  lone  mountain-cradles,  wild  and  free, 
Nursed  with  the  fawns,  lulled  by  the  woodlark's  glee, 
And  cushat's  hymeneal  song  apart ; 
River  of  chieftains,  whose  baronial  halls, 

Like  veteran  warders,  watch  each  wave-worn  steep, 
Portumna's  towers,  Bunratty's  royal  walls, 

Carrick's  stern  rock,  the  Geraldine's  grey  keep- 
River  of  dark  mementoes  !  must  I  close 
My  lips  with  Limerick's  wrong,  with  Aughrim's  woes  ? 

SPANISH  POINT 

THE  waters — O  the  waters  ! — wild  and  glooming, 
Beneath  the  stormy  pall  that  shrouds  the  sky, 

On,  through  the  deep'ning  mist  more  darkly  looming, 
Plumed  with  the  pallid  foam  funereally, 


5//?  AUBREY  DE    VERE  513 

Onward,  like  death,  they  come,  the  rocks  entombing  ! 

Nor  thunder-knell  is  needful  from  on  high  ; 
Nor  sound  of  signal  gun,  momently  booming 

O'er  the  disastrous  deep  ;  nor  seaman's  cry  ! 
And  yet,  if  aught  were  wanting,  manifold 

Mementoes  haunt  those  reefs  ;  how  that  proud  Host 
Of  Spain  and  Rome  so  smitten  were  of  old, 

By  God's  decree,  along  this  fatal  coast, 
And  over  all  their  purple  and  their  gold, 
Mitre  and  helm  and  harp,  the  avenging  waters  rolled  ! 


JOHN   KELLS   INGRAM 

DR.  INGRAM  was  born  in  1823,  in  the  County  Donegal,  and 
educated  at  Newry  School,  and  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 
He  became  an  Fellow  of  Trinity  in  1846,  and  is  an  Honorary 
LL.D.  of  Glasgow  University.  He  has  held  in  Trinity 
College  the  offices  of  Professor  of  Greek,  Professor  of  English 
Literature,  Senior  Lecturer  and  Vice- Provost,  and  he  has  been 
President  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy  and  a  Commissioner 
for  the  Publication  of  the  Ancient  Laws  and  Institutions  of 
Ireland.  Owing  to  advancing  age  he  laid  down  all  these 
offices  in  1899,  but  left  behind  him  an  enduring  record  of 
work  well  done  for  the  interests  of  Irish  intellect  and  scholar- 
ship. His  principal  published  works  relate  to  political  economy 
( *  Work  and  the  Workman  ' — an  address  to  the  Trades  Union 
Congress  in  1880— and  the  articles  on  •  Political  Economy '  and' 
1  Slavery '  in  the  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  BRITANNICA,  ninth  edition). 
The  famous  lyric,  written  in  Dr.  Ingram's  student  days, 
'The  Memory  of  the  Dead'  (see  Book  III.,  *  Poets  of  The 
Nation ' )  was  for  the  first  time  formally  acknowledged  when 
Dr.  Ingram  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1900  ;  but  its 
authorship  has  long  been  an  open  secret.  The  quatrain, 
printed  in  the  following  selection,  *  Each  nation  master  at  its 
own  fireside,'  may  perhaps  be  taken  as  representing  his  later 

L  L 


5H  BOOK   VI 


views  on  the  Irish  National  Question.  Carlyle  in  his  Irish 
tour  of  1849  notes  that  Ingram's  opinions  had  already  under- 
gone a  change. 

The  best  of  Dr.  Ingram's  sonnets,  in  his  volume  SONNETS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS,  belong  to  a  sequence,  and  cannot,  as  a 
rule,  be  taken  out  of  their  context  without  loss.  Noble  in 
thought  and  expression,  they  seem  to  carry  with  them  the  air 
of  great  literature,  and  they  make  us  regret  that  their  author 
has  given  us  so  little  verse,  and  that  little  so  late. 

SONNET 

On  reading  the  Sonnet  by  R.  C.  D.,  entitled  '  InJMemoriam  G.  P.  C.,' 
in  l  Mac  mi  I  Ian' s  Magazine? 

in  Macmillan 's  Magazine  for  April  1881  there  appeared  a  sonnet  by  Arch- 
bishop Trench  on  the  death  of  Sir  George  Pomeroy  Colley  on  Majuba  Hill. 
The  following  sonnet,  signed  '  J.  K.  I./  appeared  in  The  Academy  of  April  2  : 

YES  !  mourn  the  soul,  of  high  and  pure  intent, 

Humane  as  valiant,  in  disastrous  fight 

Laid  low  on  far  Majuba's  bloody  height  ! 

Yet  not  his  death  alone  must  we  lament, 

But  more  such  spirit  on  evil  mission  sent 

To  back  our  broken  faith  with  armed  might 

And  the  unanswered  plea  of  wounded  Right 

Strike  dumb  by  warfare's  brute  arbitrament. 

And  while  these  deeds  are  done  in  England's  name, 

Religion,  unregardful,  keeps  her  cell  : 

The  tuneful  note  that  wails  the  dead  we  hear  ; 

Where  are  the  sacred  thunders  that  should  swell 

To  shame  such  foul  oppression,  and  proclaim 

Eternal  justice  in  the  nation's  ear? 

SOCIAL  HEREDITY 

MAN  is  no  mushroom  growth  of  yesterday. 
His  roots  strike  deep  into  the  hallow'd  mould 
Of  the  dead  centuries  ;  ordinances  old 
Govern  us,  whether  gladly  we  obey 


JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM  515 


Or  vainly  struggle  to  resist  their  sway  : 
Our  thoughts  by  ancient  thinkers  are  controll'd, 
And  many  a  word  in  which  our  thoughts  are  told 
Was  coined  long  since  in  regions  far  away. 
The  strong-soul'd  nations,  destin'd  to  be  great, 
Honour  their  sires  and  reverence  the  Past ; 
They  cherish  and  improve  their  heritage. 
The  weak,  in  blind  self-trust  or  headlong  rage, 
The  olden  times'  transmitted  treasure  cast 
Behind  them,  and  bemoan  their  loss  too  late. 

NATIONALITY 

Each  nation  master  at  its  own  fireside — 
The  claim  is  just,  and  so  one  day  'twill  be  ; 
But  a  wise  race  the  time  of  fruit  will  bide, 
Nor  pluck  th'  unripen'd  apple  from  the  tree. 


WILLIAM    ALEXANDER 

THREE  pieces  are  here  given  as  specimens  of  the  stately  verse 
of  the  Protestant  Primate  of  Ireland,  whose  eloquence,  learning, 
and  character  have  made  his  name  one  of  the  most  cherished 
and  honoured  in  the  whole  history  of  his  Church.  Though 
perhaps  rarely  characterised  by  the  concentrated  force  of  the 
poetry  which  springs  from  a  native  gift,  assiduously  cultivated, 
nevertheless  the  cultivated  imagination  of  the  Primate,  his 
feeling  for  the  glory  of  Nature,  his  rich  but  never  overloaded 
rhetoric,  and  the  occasional  strains  of  a  wistful  pathos  which 
reveal  a  sensitive  human  spirit — all  these  qualities  make  his 
poetic  contribution  to  Irish  literature  one  of  high  worth  and 
distinction. 

Dr.  Alexander  was  born  at  Deny,  1824,  and  educated  at  Tunbridge 
and  Oxford.  He  received  the  degree  of  D.D.  and  D.C.I.,  from  that 
University.  In  1850,  when  rector  of  Termonamongan,  in  the  diocese  of 
Derry,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Cecil  PVances  Humphreys,  who  was 
destined  to  aid  in  winning  distinction  for  her  new  name.  After  holding 

L  L  2 


516  BOOK   VI 

cures  at  Upper  Fahan  and  at  Strabane  he  became,  in  1867,  Bishop  of 
Derry  and  Raphoe,  and  in  1897  was  called  to  the  Primacy  of  All  Ireland. 
His  poetical  publications  are  THE  DEATH  OF  JACOB,  1858  ;  SPECIMENS, 
POETICAL  AND  CRITICAL,  1867  ;  LYRICS  OF  LIFE  AND  LIGHT  (by  W. 
A.  and  others),  1878  ;  ST.  AUGUSTINE'S  HOLIDAY,  1886. 

AMONG  THE  SAND-HILLS 
FROM  the  ocean  half  a  rood 

To  the  sand-hills  long  and  low 

Ever  and  anon  I  go  ; 
Hide  from  me  the  gleaming  flood, 

Only  listen  to  its  flow. 

To  those  billowy  curls  of  sand 

Little  of  delight  is  lent — 

As  it  were  a  yellow  tent, 
Here  and  there  by  some  wild  hand 

Pitch'd,  and  overgrown  with  bent  ; 

Some  few  buds  like  golden  beads 

Cut  in  stars  on  leaves  that  shine 

Greenly,  and  a  fragrance  fine 
Of  the  ocean's  delicate  weeds, 

Of  his  fresh  and  foamy  wine. 

But  the  place  is  music-haunted. 

Let  there  blow  what  wind  soever — 

Now,  as  by  a  stately  river, 
A  monotonous  requiem's  chanted  ; 

Now  you  hear  great  pine  woods  shiver. 

Frequent  when  the  tides  are  low 
Creep  for  hours  sweet  sleepy  hums. 
But  when  in  the  spring  tide  comes, 

Then  the  silver  trumpets  blow 
And  the  waters  beat  like  drums. 

And  the  Atlantic's  roll  full  often, 

Muffled  by  the  sand-hills  round, 

Seems  a  mighty  city's  sound, 
Which  the  night-wind  serves  to  soften 

By  the  waker's  pillow  drown'd. 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  5 1  7 

Seems  a  salvo— state  or  battles — 

Through  the  purple  mountain  gaps 

Heard  by  peasants  ;  or  perhaps 
Seems  a  wheel  that  rolls  or  rattles  ; 

Seems  an  eagle's  wing  that  flaps  ; 

Seems  a  peal  of  thunder,  caught 

By  the  mountain  pines  and  tuned 

To  a  marvellous  gentle  sound  ; 
Wailings  where  despair  is  not — 

Hearts  self-hushing  some  heart- wound. 

Still  what  winds  there  blow  soever, 

Wet  or  shine,  by  sun  or  star, 

When  white  horses  plunge  afar, 
When  the  palsied  froth-lines  shiver, 

\Vhen  the  waters  quiet  are  ; 

On  the  sand-hills  where  waves  boom, 

Or,  with  ripples  scarce  at  all, 

Tumble  not  so  much  as  crawl, 
Ever  do  we  know  of  whom 

Cometh  up  the  rise  and  fall. 

Need  is  none  to  see  the  ships, 

None  to  mark  the  mid-sea  jet 

Softening  into  violet, 
While  those  old  pre-Adamite  lips 

To  those  boundary  heaps  are  set. 

Ah  !  we  see  not  the  great  foam 

That  beyond  us  strangely  rolls, 

Whose  white-winged  ships  are    ouls 
Sailing  from  the  port  called  Home, 

When  the  signal-bell  Death  tolls. 

And  we  catch  not  the  broad  shimmer, 

Catch  not  yet  the  hue  divine 

Of  the  purpling  hyaline  ; 
Of  the  heaving  and  the  glimmer 

Life's  sands  cheat  our  straining  eyne 


ci8  BOOK   VI 


But  by  wondrous  sounds  not  shut 
From  those  sand-hills,  we  may  be 
Sure  that  a  diviner  sea 

Than  earth's  keels  have  ever  cut 
Floweth  from  eternity. 

INSCRIPTION 

ON  THE  STATUE  ERECTED  TO  CAPTAIN  BOYD  IN 
ST.  PATRICK'S  CATHEDRAL,  DUBLIN 

OH  !  in  the  quiet  haven,  safe  for  aye, 
If  lost  to  us  in  port  one  stormy  day, 
Borne  with  a  public  pomp  by  just  decree, 
Heroic  sailor  !  from  that  fatal  sea, 
A  city  vows  this  marble  unto  thee. 
And  here,  in  this  calm  place,  where  never  din 
Of  earth's  great  waterfloods  shall  enter  in, 
Where  to  our  human  hearts  two  thoughts  are  given- 
One  Christ's  self-sacrifice,  the  other  Heaven  — 
Here  is  it  meet  for  grief  and  love  to  grave 
The  Christ-taught  bravery  that  died  to  save, 
The  life  not  lost,  but  found  beneath  the  wave. 

VERY  FAR  AWAY 

ONE  touch  there  is  of  magic  white, 
Surpassing  southern  mountain's  snow, 

That  to  far  sails  the  dying  light 

Lends,  where  the  dark  ships  onward  go 

Upon  the  golden  highway  broad 

That  leads  up  to  the  isles  of  God. 

One  touch  of  light  more  magic  yet, 
Of  rarer  snow  'neath  moon  or  star, 

Where,  with  her  graceful  sails  all  set, 
Some  happy  vessel  seen  afar, 

As  if  in  an  enchanted  sleep 

Steers  o'er  the  tremulous  stretching  deep. 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  519 


O  ship  !  O  sail  !  far  must  ye  be 
Ere  gleams  like  that  upon  ye  light. 

O'er  golden  spaces  of  the  sea, 

From  mysteries  of  the  lucent  night, 

Such  touch  comes  never  to  the  boat 

Wherein  across  the  waves  we  float. 

O  gleams  more  magic  and  divine, 
Life's  whitest  sail  ye  still  refuse, 

And  flying  on  before  us  shine 

Upon  some  distant  bark  ye  choose. 

— By  night  or  day,  across  the  spray, 

That  sail  is  very  far  away. 


CECIL   FRANCES  ALEXANDER 

MRS.  ALEXANDER'S  hymns  and  religious  verse  have  made  her 
name  as  a  poetess  very  widely  known.  Her  poems  on  secular 
themes  have  perhaps  been  less  heard  of,  but  they  show, 
together  with  a  certain  weakness  in  constructive  power,  much 
force  and  picturesqueness  of  diction  and  touches  of  keen 
pathos.  Her  poetic  development  has  evidently  been  much 
influenced  by  her  husband's  work,  but  she  occasionally 
commanded  an  accent  of  passion  rendered  with  a  penetrating 
simplicity  which  was  all  her  own.  Her  poem  on  the  leaguer 
of  Derry  is  a  fine  example  of  her  mastery  of  language  and 
rhythm. 

Cecil  Frances  Humphreys  was  born  in  Dublin  about  1825  ;  a  daughter 
of  Major  John  Humphreys,  a  Norfolk  man  by  birth,  who  became  a  land- 
owner in  Tyrone  and  in  Wicklow.  She  came  early  under  the  religious 
influence  of  Dr.  Hook,  Dean  of  Chichester,  and  subsequently  of  Keble, 
who  edited  her  HYMNS  FOR  LITTLE  CHILDREN.  She  married  William 
Alexander — then  rector  of  Termonamongan  -  in  1850,  and  died  in  1895. 
Her  poems  have  been  collected  and  edited  by  her  husband  (POEMS,  by 
C.  F.  Alexander,  1896). 


520  BOOK   VI 


THE  SIEGE  OF  DERRY 

'  O  MY  daughter  !  lead  me  forth  to  the  bastion  on  the  north, 
Let  me  see  the  water  running  from  the  green  hills  of  Tyrone, 

Where  the  woods  of  Mountjoy  quiver  above  the  changeful  river, 
And  the  silver  trout  lie  hidden  in  the  pools  that  I  have  known. 

'  There  I  wooed  your  mother,  dear  !  in  the  days  that  are  so  near 
To  the  old  man  who  lies  dying  in  this  sore-beleaguered  place  ; 

For  time's  long  years  may  sever,  but  love  that  liveth  ever, 
Calls  back  the  early  rapture — lights  again  the  angel  face. 

'  Ah,  well  !  she  lieth  still  on  our  wall-engirdled  hill, 

Our  own  Cathedral  holds  her  till  God  shall  call  His  dead  ; 

And  the  Psalter's  swell  and  wailing,  and  the  cannon's  loud  assailing, 
And  the  preacher's  voice  and  blessing,  pass  unheeded  o'er  her 
head. 

1  'Twas  the  Lord  who  gave  the  word  when  His  people  drew  the 
sword 

For  the  freedom  of  the  present,  for  the  future  that  awaits. 
O  child  !  thou  must  remember  that  bleak  day  in  December 

When  the  'Prentice-Boys  of  Derry  rose  up  and  shut  the  gates. 

'  There  was  tumult  in  the  street,  and  a  rush  of  many  feet — 
There  was  discord  in  the  Council,  and  Lundy  turned  to  fly, 

For  the  man  had  no  assurance  of  Ulstermen's  endurance, 

Nor  the  strength  of  him  who  trusteth  in  the  arm  of  God  Most 
High. 

'  These  limbs,  that  now  are  weak,  were  strong  then,  and  thy  cheek 

Held  roses  that  were  red  as  any  rose  in  June — 
That  now  are  wan,  my  daughter  !  as  the  light  on  the  Foyle  water 

When  all  the  sea  and  all  the  land  are  white  beneath  the  moon. 

'  Then  the  foemen  gather'd  fast — we  could  see  them  marching 
past — 

The  Irish  from  his  barren  hills,  the  Frenchmen  from  his  wars, 
With  their  banners  bravely  beaming,  and  to  our  eyes  their  seeming 

Was  fearful  as  a  locust  bandv  and  countless  as  the  stars. 


CECIL   FRANCES  ALEXANDER  521 

And  they  bound  us  with  a  cord  from  the  harbour  to  the  ford, 
And  they  raked  us  with  their  cannon,  and  sallying  was  hot  ; 
But  our  trust  was  still  unshaken,  though  Culmore  fort  was  taken, 
And  they  wrote  our  men  a  letter,  and  they  sent  it  in  a  shot. 

They  were  soft  words  that  they  spoke,  how  we  need  not  fear  their 

yoke, 
And   they  pleaded  by  our  homesteads,   and  by  our  children 

small, 
And   our  women   fair    and    tender  ;    but    we    answered :    "No 

surrender  ! " 
And  we  called  on  God  Almighty,  and  we  went  to  man  the  wall. 

1  There   was  wrath  in  the    French   camp ;    we   could  hear  their 
Captain's  stamp, 

And  Rosen,  with  his  hand  on  his  cross'd  hilt,  swore 
That  little  town  of  Derry,  not  a  league  from  Culmore  ferry, 

Should  lie  a  heap  of  ashes  on  the  Foyle's  green  shore. 

*  Like  a  falcon  on  her  perch,  our  fair  Cathedral  Church 

Above  the  tide-vext  river  looks  eastward  from  the  bay — 
Dear  namesake   of  St.    Columb,   and  each  morning,  sweet  and 

solemn, 
The  bells,  through  all  the  tumult,  have  call'd  us  in  to  pray. 

'  Our  leader  speaks  the  prayer — the  captains  all  are  there — 
His  deep  voice  never  falters,  though  his  look  be  sad  and  grave 

On  the  women's  pallid  faces,  and  the  soldiers  in  their  places, 
And  the  stones  above  our  brothers  that  lie  buried  in  the  nave. 

*  They  are  closing  round  us  still  by  the  river  ;  on  the  hill 

You  can  see  the  white  pavilions   round   the  standard   of  their 

chief; 

But  the  Lord  is  up  in  heaven,  though  the  chances  are  uneven, 
Though  the  boom  is  in  the  river  whence  we  look'd  for  our  relief. 

'  And  the  faint  hope  dies  away  at  the  close  of  each  long  day, 
As  we  see  the  eyes  grow  lustreless,  the  pulses  beating  low  ; 

As  we  see  our  children  languish.     Was  ever  martyr's  anguish, 
At  the  stake  or  in  the  dungeon,  like  this  anguish  that  we  know  ? 


522  BOOK   VI 


'  With  the  foemen's  closing  line,  while  the  English  make  no  sign, 
And  the  daily  lessening  ration,  and  the  fall  of  staggering  feet, 

And  the  wailing  low  and  fearful,  and  the  women,  stern  and  tearful, 
Speaking  bravely  to  their  husbands  and   their  lovers   in   the 
street. 

'  There  was  trouble  in  the  air  when  we  met  this  day  for  prayer, 
And  the  joyous  July  morning  was  heavy  in  our  eyes  ; 

Our  arms  were  by  the  altar  as  we  sang  aloud  the  Psalter, 
And  listen'd  in  the  pauses  for  the  enemy's  surprise. 

' "  Praise  the  Lord  God  in  the  height,  for  the  glory  of  His  might  !  " 
It  ran  along  the  arches  and  it  went  out  to  the  town  : 

"  In  His  strength  He  hath  arisen,  He   hath  loos'd  the  souls  in 

prison, 
The  wrong'd  one  He  hath  righted,  and  raised  the  fallen-down." 

'And  the  preacher's  voice  was  bold  as  he  rose  up  then  and  told 
Of  the  triumph  of  the  righteous,  of  the  patience  of  the  saints, 

And  the  hope  of  God's  assistance,  and  the  greatness  of  resistance, 
Of  the  trust  that  never  wearies  and  the  heart  that  never  faints. 

'  Where  the  river  joins  the  brine,  canst  thou  see  the  ships  in  line  ? 

And  the  plenty  of  our  craving  just  beyond  the  cruel  boom  ? 
Through  the  dark  mist  of  the  firing  canst  thou    see  the  masts 

aspiring, 
Dost  thou  think  of  one  who  loves  thee  on  that  ship  amidst  the 

gloom  ? ' 

She  was  weary,  she  was  wan,  but  she  climb'd  the  rampart  on, 
And  she  look'd  along  the  water  where  the  good  ships  lay  afar  : 

'  Oh  !  I  see  on  either  border  their  cannon  ranged  in  order, 
And  the  boom  across  the  river,  and  the  waiting  men-of-war. 

1  There's  death  in  every  hand  that  holds  a  lighted  brand, 
But  the  gallant  little  Mountjoy  comes  bravely  to  the  front. 

Now,  God  of  Battles,  hear  us  !     Let  that  good  ship  draw  near  us. 
Ah  !    the   brands    are   at   the    touch-holes — will   she  bear  the 
cannon's  brunt  ? 


CECIL  FRANCES  ALEXANDER  523 

*  She  makes  a  forward  dash.     Hark  !  hark  \m  the  thunder-crash  ! 

O  father,  they  have  caught  her — she  is  lying  on  the  shore. 
Another  crash  like  thunder — will  it  tear  her  ribs  asunder  ? 

No,  no  !  the  shot  has  freed  her — she  is  floating  on  once  more. 

'  She  pushes  her  white  sail  through  the  bullets'  leaden  hail — 
Now  blessings  on  her  captain  and  on  her  seamen  bold  !  — 

Crash  1  crash  !  the  boom   is  broken  ;  I    can  see   my  true  love's 

token — 
A  lily  in  his  bonnet,  a  lily  all  of  gold. 

'  She  sails  up  to  the  town,  like  a  queen  in  a  white  gown 
Red  golden  are  her  lilies,  true  gold  are  all  her  men. 

Now  the  Phoenix  follows  after — I  can  hear  the  women's  laughter, 
And  the  shouting  of  the  soldiers,  till  the  echoes  ring  again.' 

****** 

She  has  glided  from  the  wall,  on  her  lover's  breast  to  fall, 
As  the  white  bird  of  the  ocean  drops  down  into  the  wave  ; 

And  the  bells  are  madly  ringing,  and  a  hundred  voices  singing, 
And  the  old  man  on  the  bastion  has  joined  the  triumph  stave  ; 

'  Sing  ye  praises  through  the  land  ;  the  Lord  with  His  right  hand, 
With  His  mighty  arm  hath  gotten  Himself  the  victory  now. 

He  hath  scattered  their  forces,  both  the  riders  and  their  horses. 
There  is  none  that  fighteth  for  us,  O  God  !  but  only  Thou.' 

THE  IRISH  MOTHER'S  LAMENT 

'  She  watched  for  the  return  of  her  son  from  America  in  her  house  by  the 
Foyle,  near  Deny.' 

'  THERE'S  no  one  on  the  long  white  road 

The  night  is  closing  o'er  ; 
O  mother  !  cease  to  look  abroad 
And  let  me  shut  the  door. 

4  Now  here  and  there  a  twinkling  light 

Comes  out  along  the  bay  ; 
The  little  ships  lie  still  and  white, 

And  no  one  comes  this  way.' 


524  BOOK   VI 


She  turned  her  straining  eyes  within  ; 
She  sighed  both  long  and  low. 

*  Shut  up  the  door  ;  take  out  the  pin, 

Then,  if  it  must  be  so. 

*  But,  daughter,  set  the  wick  alight, 

And  put  it  in  the  pane  ; 
If  any  should  come  home  to-night, 
He'll  see  it  through  the  rain. 

'  Nay,  leave  the  pin  beneath  the  latch  ; 

If  some  one  push  the  door, 
Across  my  broken  dreams  I'll  hear 

His  footstep  on  the  floor.' 

She  crouched  within  the  ingle  nook, 

She  spread  her  fingers  sere, 
Her  failed  eyes  had  a  far-off  look, 

Despite  her  fourscore  year. 

And  if  in  youth  they  had  been  fair, 
'Twas  not  the  charm  they  had, 

Not  the  old  beauty  lingering  there, 
But  something  weird  and  sad. 

The  daughter,  in  the  firelight  pale, 

A  woman  grey  and  wan, 
Sat  listening,  while  half  dream,  half  wail, 

Her  words  went  wandering  on  ; 

*  O  river  that  dost  never  halt 

Till  down  beyond  the  bar 
Thou  meet'st  the  breakers  green  and  salt 
That  bore  my  lads  afar — 

*  O  sea  betwixt  our  slighted  isle 

And  that  wide  bounteous  West 
That  has  such  magic  in  her  smile 
To  lure  away  our  best — 


CECIL  FRANCES  ALEXANDER  525 


1  Bring  back,  bring  back  the  guiding  keel ; 

Bring  fast  the  home-bound  ship  ; 
Mine  eyes  look  out  ;  I  faint  to  feel 

The  touch  of  hand  and  lip. 

*  And  is  that  land  so  much  more  fair, 

So  much  more  rich  that  shore 
Than  this,  where,  prodigal  of  care, 
I  nursed  the  sons  I  bore  ? 

'  I  nursed  them  at  my  yielding  breast, 

I  reared  them  at  my  knee, 
They  left  me  for  the  golden  West ; 

They  left  me  for  the  sea. 

*  With  hungry  heart,  and  eyes  that  strove 

In  vain  their  eyes  to  meet, 
And  all  my  lavish  mother's  love 
Beat  backward  to  my  feet — 

*  Like  that  broad  stream  that  runs,  and  raves, 

And  floweth  grandly  out, 
But  the  salt  billows  catch  its  waves, 
And  fling  them  all  about  — 

'  The  bitter  world  washed  out  my  claim  ; 

In  childhood  it  was  dear, 
But  youth  forgets,  and  manhood  came, 

And  dashed  it  far  and  near. 

'  But  when  I  think  of  the  eld  time, 

Soft  fingers,  eyes  that  met, 
In  spite  of  age,  in  spite  of  clime, 

I  wonder  they  forget. 

'  And  if  they  live,  their  life  is  strong  ; 

Forgotten  here  I  die  ; 
I  question  with  my  heart,  and  long, 

And  cannot  answer  why, 


526  BOOK   VI 


*  Till  by  Christ's  grace  I  walk  in  white 

Where  His  redeemed  go, 
And  know  the  reason  of  God's  right, 
Or  never  care  to  know. 

'  But  out-bound  ships  come  home  again 
They  sail  'neath  sun  and  moon. 

Put  thou  the  candle  in  the  pane  ; 
They  may  be  coming  soon.' 

*  Calm  lie  the  lights  below  the  town  ; 

There's  not  a  ship  in  sight  ; 

0  mother  !  cease,  and  lay  you  down  ; 
They  will  not  come  to-night.' 

DREAMS 

BEYOND,  beyond  the  mountain  line, 
The  grey-stone  and  the  boulder, 

Beyond  the  growth  of  dark  green  pine, 
That  crowns  its  western  shoulder, 

There  lies  that  fairy-land  of  mine, 
Unseen  of  a  beholder. 

Its  fruits  are  all  like  rubies  rare  ; 

Its  streams  are  clear  as  glasses  ; 
There  golden  castles  hang  in  air, 

And  purple  grapes  in  masses, 
And  noble  knights  and  ladies  fair 

Come  riding  down  the  passes. 

Ah  me  !  they  say  if  I  could  stand 
Upon  those  mountain  ledges, 

1  should  but  see  on  eithe^  hand 

Plain  fields  and  dusty  hedges  ; 
And  yet  I  know  my  fairy-land 
Lies  somewhere  o'er  their  edges. 


EDWARD  DOWDEN  527 


EDWARD  DOWDEN 

THE  younger  generation  of  literary  students  owes  so  much  to 
the  critical  work  of  Edward  Dowden  that  it  is  impossible  to  wish 
away  any  part  of  it.  Yet  the  readers  of  his  verse  must  feel 
that  the  hours  he  has  spent  with  the  sovereign  lady  of  poesy  have 
been,  alas  !  too  few  ;  that  his  distinction  as  a  prose-writer  has 
been  bought  at  almost  too  great  a  price.  For  he  has  not  written 
his  poetry  as  with  his  left  hand  ;  here  he  has  not  in  any  degree 
tutored  himself  to  speak,  but  speaks  in  his  own  natural  voice 
and  in  his  native  tongue. 

There  are  among  the  poets  of  our  time  some  whose  music 
assails  the  ear  with  more  .insistence  ;  there  is  none  who  more 
surely  enters  and  subdues  the  heart.  Like  the  poetry  of 
Andrew  Marvell,  it  is  not  for  the  multitude,  but  for  him  who 

Can  burst  joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine. 

It  puts  forth  its  own  flower  and  fruit  ;  it  creates  its  own  world, 
awakens  its  own  mood.  And  as  a  poet  it  is  with  Marvell  that, 
if  comparison  is  needful,  Professor  Dowden  may  best  be 
compared.  He  recalls  to  us  Marvell's  fine  simplicity,  his 
unfailing  sense  for  the  beautiful,  his  pervading  spirituality,  his 
touch  of  resolute  aloofness  from  the  haste  and  fever  of  life, 
his  glad  and  serious  temper,  his  unaffected  charm  of  phrase  and 
movement.  Like  Marvell's,  this  is  but  a  small  island  of  poetry ; 
but  the  human  spirit  may  inhabit  here.  Over  it  bends  the 
same  sky  as  over  the  great  continents  ;  across  it  blow  the  same 
winds,  and  on  its  shores  break  the  everlasting  seas. 

W.  MACNEILE  DIXON. 

Prof.  E.  Dowden,  LL.D.,  was  born  in  Cork,  1843,  and  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  graduated  as  Senior  Moderator  in 
Metaphysics  and  Ethics  in  1863.  He  is  now  Professor  of  English 
Literature  in  Dublin  University.  He  produced  much  prose  work,  in  the 
form  both  of  books  and  scattered  essays.  His  SHAKESPERE  :  His 
MIND  AND  ART  (1874)  marked  an  epoch  in  Shake^perean  studies  in 
England.  It  was  the  first  work  of  importance  in  which  the  results  of 


BOOK   VI 


textual  research  in  Shakespere's  plays  and  poems  were  turned  fruitfully  to 
the  uses  of  aesthetic  criticism.  Professor  Dowden's  POEMS  appeared  in 
1876. 

ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

HERE  are  the  needs  of  manhood  satisfied  ! 
Sane  breath,  an  amplitude  for  soul  and  sense, 
The  noonday  silence  of  the  summer  hills, 
And  this  embracing  solitude  ;  o'er  all 
The  sky  unsearchable,  which  lays  its  claim — 
A  large  redemption  not  to  be  annulled — • 
Upon  the  heart ;  and  far  below,  the  sea 
Breaking  and  breaking,  smoothly,  silently. 
What  need  I  any  further  ?     Now  once  more 
My  arrested  life  begins,  and  I  am  man 
Complete  with  eye,  heart,  brain,  and  that  within 
Which  is  the  centre  and  the  light  of  being  ; 
O  dull  !  who  morning  after  morning  chose 
Never  to  climb  these  gorse  and  heather  slopes 
Cairn-crowned,  but  lost  within  one  seaward  nook 
Wasted  my  soul  on  the  ambiguous  speech 
And  slow  eye-mesmerism  of  rolling  waves, 
Courting  oblivion  of  the  heart.     True  life 
That  was  not  which  possessed  me  while  I  lay 
Prone  on  the  perilous  edge,  mere  eye  and  ear, 
Staring  upon  the  bright  monotony, 
Having  let  slide  all  force  from  me,  each  thought 
Yield  to  the  vision  of  the  gleaming  blank, 
Each  nerve  of  motion  and  of  sense  grow  numb, 
Till  to  the  bland  persuasion  of  some  breeze 
Which  played  across  my  forehead  and  my  hair 
The  last  volition  would  efface  itself, 
And  I  was  mingled  wholly  in  the  sound 
Of  tumbling  billow  and  upjetting  surge, 
Long  reluctation,  welter  and  refluent  moan, 
And  the  reverberating  tumultuousness 
'Mid  shelf  and  hollow  and  angle  black  with  spray. 
Yet  under  all  oblivion  there  remained 
A  sense  of  some  frustration,  a  pale  dream 


EDWARD  DOW  DEN  529 

Of  Nature  mocking  man,  and  drawing  down  — 
As  streams  draw  down  the  dust  of  gold — his  will, 
His  thought,  and  passion,  to  enrich  herself— 
The  insatiable  devourer. 

Welcome  Earth, 

My  natural  heritage  !  and  this  soft  turf, 
These  rocks,  which  no  insidious  ocean  saps, 
But  the  wide  air  flows  over,  and  the  sun 
Illumines.     Take  me,  mother,  to  thy  breast  ; 
Gather  me  close  in  tender,  sustinent  arms  ; 
Lay  bare  thy  bosom's  sweetness  and  its  strength 
That  I  may  drink  vigour  and  joy  and  love. 
O  infinite  composure  of  the  hills, 
Thou  large  simplicity  of  this  fair  world, 
Candour  and  calmness,  with  no  mockery, 
No  soft  frustration,  flattering  sigh  or  smile 
Which  masks  a  tyrannous  purpose  ;  and  ye  Powers 
Of  these  sky-circled  heights,  and  Presences 
Awful  and  strict,  I  find  you  favourable, 
Who  seek  not  to  exclude  me  or  to  slay, 
Rather  accept  my  being,  take  me  up 
Into  your  silence  and  your  peace.     Therefore 
By  him  whom  ye  reject  not,  Gracious  Ones, 
Pure  vows  are  made  that  haply  he  will  be 
Not  all  unworthy  of  the  world  ;  he  casts 
Forth  from  him,  never  to  resume  again, 
Veiled  nameless  things,  frauds  of  the  unfilled  heart, 
Fantastic  pleasures,  delicate  sadnesses, 
The  lurid  and  the  curious  and  the  occult, 
Coward  sleights  and  shifts,  the  manners  of  the  slave, 
And  long  unnatural  uses  of  dim  life. 
Hence  with  you  !     Robes  of  angels  touch  these  heights 
Blown  by  pure  winds,  and  I  lay  hold  upon  them. 
Here  is  a  perfect  bell  of  purple  heath, 
Made  for  the  sky  to  gaze  at  reverently, 
As  faultless  as  itself,  and  holding  light, 
Glad  air  and  silence  in  its  slender  dome  ; 
Small,  but  a  needful  moment  in  the  sum 
Of  God's  full  joy — the  abyss  of  ecstasy 

M  M 


530  BOOK   VI 


O'er  which  we  hang  as  the  bright  bow  of  foam 

Above  the  never-filled  receptacle 

Hangs  seven-hued,  where  the  endless  cataract  leaps. 

Oh  !  now  I  guess  why  you  have  summoned  me, 

Headlands  and  heights,  to  your  companionship. 

Confess  that  I  this  day  am  needful  to  you  ! 

The  heavens  were  loaded  with  great  light,  the  winds 

Brought  you  calm  summer  from  a  hundred  fields, 

All  night  the  stars  had  pricked  you  to  desire, 

The  imminent  joy  at  its  full  season  flowered, 

There  was  a  consummation,  the  broad  wave 

Toppled  and  fell.     And  had  ye  voice  for  this  ? 

Sufficient  song  to  unburden  the  urged  breast  ? 

A  pastoral  pipe  to  play  ?  a  lyre  to  touch  ? 

The  brightening  glory  of  the  heath  and  gorse 

Could  not  appease  your  passion,  nor  the  cry 

Of  this  wild  bird  that  flits  from  bush  to  bush. 

Me  therefore  you  required,  a  voice  for  song, 

A  pastoral  pipe  to  play,  a  lyre  to  touch. 

I  recognise  your  bliss  to  find  me  here  ; 

The  sky  at  morning,  when  the  sun  upleaps, 

Demands  her  atom  of  intense  melody, 

Her  point  of  quivering  passion  and  delight, 

And  will  not  let  the  lark's  heart  be  at  ease. 

Take  me,  the  brain  with  various  subtile  fold, 

The  breast  that  knows  swift  joy,  the  vocal  lips  ; 

I  yield  you  here  the  cunning  instrument 

Between  your  knees  ;  now  let  the  plectrum  fall  ! 

ABOARD  THE  'SEA-SWALLOW' 

THE  gloom  of  the  sea-fronting  cliffs 

Lay  on  the  water,  violet-dark  ; 
The  pennon  drooped,  the  sail  fell  in, 

And  slowly  moved  our  bark. 

A  golden  day  ;  the  summer  dreamed 
In  heaven  and  on  the  whispering  sea, 

Within  our  hearts  the  summer  dreamed  ; 
The  hours  had  ceased  to  be. 


ED  WARD  DO  WDEN  531 


Then  rose  the  girls  with  bonnets  loosed, 

And  shining  tresses  lightly  blown, 
Alice  and  Adela,  and  sang 

A  song  of  Mendelssohn. 

Oh  !  sweet  and  sad  and  wildly  clear, 
Through  summer  air  it  sinks  and  swells, 

Wild  with  a  measureless  desire 
And  sad  with  all  farewells. 

OASIS 

LET  them  go  by— the  heats,  the  doubts,  the  strife  ; 

I  can  sit  here  and  care  not  for  them  now, 
Dreaming  beside  the  glimmering  wave  of  life 

Once  more — I  know  not  how. 

There  is  a  murmur  in  my  heart  ;  I  hear 

Faint — oh  !  so  faint— some  air  I  used  to  sing  ; 

It  stirs  my  sense  ;  and  odours  dim  and  dear 
The  meadow-breezes  bring. 

Just  this  way  did  the  quiet  twilights  fade 
Over  the  fields  and  happy  homes  of  men, 

While  one  bird  sang  as  now,  piercing  the  shade, 
Long  since — I  know  not  when. 


EDMUND   JOHN   ARMSTRONG 

THE  elder  brother  of  George  Francis  Savage-Armstrong  (q.v.), 
by  whom  the  story  of  his  short  life  has  been  written  and  his 
literary  remains  collected  (1877).  His  fine  character  and 
brilliant  intellect  appear  to  have  made  a  deep  impression  on  his 
contemporaries,  and  his  death  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  was 
accompanied  with  a  widespread  regret  and  sense  of  loss  such  as 
rarely  attend  the  passing-away  of  so  young  a  writer.  Armstrong 
was  born  in  Dublin  in  1841,  and  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
in  1859.  Though  apparently  of  strong  physique,  and,  like  his 

M  M  2 


532  BOOK   VI 


brother,  a  great  lover  of  outdoor  life,  he  was  attacked  by  con- 
sumption and  died  in  1865. 

Mr.  E.  J.  Armstrong's  POEMS  have  been  posthumously  published. 

THE  BLIND  STUDENT 

ON  Euripides'  plays  we  debated, 

In  College,  one  chill  winter  night ; 
A  student  rose  up,  while  we  waited 

For  more  intellectual  light. 
As  he  stood,  pale  and  anxious,  before  us, 

Three  words,  like  a  soft  summer  wind, 
Went  past  us  and  through  us  and  o'er  us — 

A  whisper  low-breathed  :  '  He  is  blind  ! ' 

And  in  many  a  face  there  was  pity, 

In  many  an  eye  there  were  tears  ; 
For  his  words  were  not  buoyant  or  witty, 

As  fitted  his  fresh  summer  years. 
And  he  spoke  once  or  twice,  as  none  other 

Could  speak,  of  a  woman's  pure  ways — 
He  remembered  the  face  of  his  mother 

Ere  darkness  had  blighted  his  days. 

ADIEU 

I  HEAR  a  distant  clarion  blare 
The  smouldering  battle  flames  anew ; 

A  noise  of  onset  shakes  the  air — 
Dear  woods  and  quiet  vales,  adieu  ! 

Weird  crag,  where  I  was  wont  to  gaze 

On  the  far  sea's  aerial  hue, 
Below  a  veil  of  glimmering  haze 

At  morning's  breezy  prime — adieu  ! 

Clear  runnel,  bubbling  under  boughs 
Of  odorous  lime  and  darkling  yew. 

Where  I  have  lain  on  banks  of  flowers 
And  dreamed  the  livelong  noon — adieu  ! 


EDMUND  JOHN  ARMSTRONG  533 


And,  ah  !  ye  lights  and  shades  that  ray 
These  orbs  of  brightest  summer  blue, 

That  haunted  me  by  night  and  day 
For  happy  moons— adieu  !  adieu  ! 

From  FIONNUALA 

WITH  heaving  breast  the  fair-haired  Eileen  sang 

The  mystic,  sweet,  low-vowelled  Celtic  rhyme 

Of  Fionnuala  and  her  phantom  lover, 

Who  wooed  her  in  the  fairy  days  of  yore 

Beneath  the  sighing  pines  that  gloom  the  waves 

Of  Luggala  and  warbling  Anamoe — 

And  how  he  whispered  softly  vows  of  love, 

While  the  pale  moonbeam  glimmered  down  and  lit 

The  cataract's  flashing  foam,  and  elves  and  fays 

Played  o'er  the  dewy  harebells,  wheeling  round    ' 

The  dappled  foxglove  in  a  flickering  maze 

Of  faint  aerial  flame  ;  and  the  wild  sprites 

Of  the  rough  storm  were  bound  in  charmed  sleep — 

And  how  the  lovely  phantom  lowly  knelt, 

And  pleaded  with  such  sweet-tongued  eloquence, 

Such  heavenly  radiance  on  his  lips  and  eyes, 

That  Fionnuala,  blushing,  all  in  tears, 

Breaking  the  sacred  spell  that  held  her  soul, 

Fell  on  his  bosom  and  confessed  her  love — 

And  how  the  demon  changed,  and  flashed  upon  her 

In  all  his  hideous  beauty,  and  she  sank 

In  fearful  slumbers,  and,  awaking,  found 

Her  form  borne  upward  in  the  yielding  air  ; 

And,  floating  o'er  a  dark  blue  lake,  beheld 

The  reflex  of  a  swan,  white  as  the  clouds 

That  fringe  the  noonday  sun,  and  heard  a  voice, 

As  from  a  far  world,  shivering  through  the  air  : 

'  Thou  shalt  resume  thy  maiden  form  once  more 

When  yon  great  Temples,  piled  upon  the  hills 

With  rugged  slabs  and  pillars,  shall  be  whelmed 

In  ruin,  and  their  builders'  names  forgot  ! ' — 

And  how  she  knew  her  phantom  lover  spoke, 


534  BOOK    VI 


And  how  she  floated  over  lake  and  fell 

A  hundred  years,  and  sighed  her  mournful  plaint 

Day  after  day,  till  the  first  mass-bell  pealed 

Its  silvery  laughter  amid  Erin's  hills, 

And  a  young  warrior  found  her,  with  the  dew 

Of  morning  on  her  maiden  lips,  asleep 

In  the  green  woods  of  warbling  Anampe, 

And  wooed  and  won  her  for  his  blushing  bride. 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG 

MR.  ARMSTRONG  is  one  of  the  most  fertile  of  Irish  writers  of  the 
present  day.  He  has  given  himself  to  poetry  in  that  spirit  of 
single-hearted  devotion  in  which  great  works  are  achieved ;  and 
his  arrayof  volumes— containing  dramas,  lyrics,  narrative  poems, 
odes,  meditations,  and  what  not — represent  a  strenuous  attempt 
to  pay  what  Baudelaire  calls  the  poet's  ransom  by  the  harvest 
of  his  art. 

The  earliest  years  of  Mr.  Armstrong  were  spent  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  County  Wicklow,  and  as  in  the  case  of  his 
elder  brother,  Edmund  J.  Armstrong  (q.v.),  whom  he  accom- 
panied in  endless  rambles  and  explorations 

...  Along  the  stormful  shore, 

Roaming  underneath  the  lonely  woodlands'  branches  old  and  hoar, 
Where  the  golden  rills  of  Wicklow  foaming 
Flash  from  rock  to  rock  through  many  a  dark  ravine, 
Where  the  crags  above  the  hollows  and  the  lakes  in  splendour  lean, 

this  region  with  its  singular  and  pathetic  beauty  was  the 
true  nursing-mother  of  his  poetic  gift.  The  following  passage 
from  a  letter  which  I  am  permitted  to  quote  gives  the  clue  to 
the  character  of  his  whole  poetic  work  :  '  The  love  of  Nature 
led  in  my  brother's  case  and  in  mine  to  the  love  of  poetry. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  I  had  read  all  Shakespeare's  plays  and  a  vast 
deal  of  other  poetry  and  prose  besides.  I  used  to  spend  hours, 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      53$ 


with  a  book  of  poetry  in  my  hand,  in  the  tops  of  tall  trees,  reading, 
or  on  the  side  of  the  Dublin  or  Wicklow  mountains,  alone ;  or  my 
brother  and  I  together  would  scale  a  mountain,  with  a  volume 
of  Byron  or  Scott  or  Wordsworth  or  Coleridge  or  Keats  or 
Shelley,  and  lie  in  the  heather,  reading  aloud  alternately  poem 
after  poem."  All  his  life  long,  but  especially  in  the  years  from 
about  1864  to  1877,  Mr.  Armstrong — as  his  readers  might  per- 
ceive— has  been  a  devoted  lover  of  the  knapsack  and  the  '  open 
road,'  and  has  tramped  not  only  over  a  great  part  of  his  own 
country,  but  through  Normandy  and  Brittany,  the  Riviera, 
Switzerland,  Italy,  and  even  Greece,  Turkey,  and  Bulgaria. 
The  effect  of  his  devotion  both  to  poetry  and  to  open-air  life 
may  be  clearly  traced  in  Mr.  Armstrong's  work.  It  shows  fine 
culture  and  acquaintance  with  the  highest  models,  and  it 
brings  with  it  also  something  far  more  precious — a  breath 
from  the  hills,  the  odour  of  pines,  the  gleam  of  mountain 
torrents,  the  sunlight  on  leagues  of  heather.  Mr.  Armstrong 
has  travelled  much,  both  in  the  outward  world  and  in  that 
inner  one  of  thought  and  study,  and  from  every  place  that  he 
has  visited  in  both  worlds  some  glimpse  of  the  scenery  of  his 
life  is  reflected  in  his  verse.  But  he  seems  to  have  taken 
everywhere  with  him,  and  preserved  in  all  its  buoyancy,  the 
early  youthful  delight  in  exploration  and  in  the  physical  con- 
tact with  wild  Nature.  The  distinct  note,  the  original  flavour, 
of  Mr.  Armstrong's  poetry  appears  to  be  formed  by  the  union 
of  his  ornate  and  stately  diction  with  the  peculiar  freshness  and 
directness  of  his  pictures  of  outdoor  life.  These  pictures  have 
the  true  quality  of  the  plein  air— they  are  not  memories  or 
dreams  of  Nature,  but  experiences,  won  by  the  toil  that  deepens 
the  breath  and  braces  the  muscle  upon  the  mountain-side,  and 
that  reader  must  have  surely  left  his  youth  of  body  and  spirit 
long  behind  in  whose  veins  they  do  not  stir  the  roving  blood. 

But  though  Mr.  Armstrong's  renderings  of  the  life  of  Nature 
form,  to  my  mind,  the  most  original  and  valuable  part  of  his 
work,  he  is  also  a  poet  of  human  thought  and  passion,  and  has 
produced  in  that  province  a  great  deal  of  masterly  work. 
His  three-volumed  drama,  or  trilogy,  on  '  Saul,'  «  David,'  and. 


536  BOOK   VI 


'Solomon,'  was  perhaps  a  piece  of  misdirected  labour— for 
these  figures  have  become  symbols  to  us,  and  as  human 
characters  in  a  drama  of  action  they  do  not  appear  to  live- 
yet  one  cannot  but  admire  the  strenuous  artistic  impulse  in 
which  such  a  work  was  conceived  and  executed.  These 
dramas — like  the  author's  earlier  work  UGONE,  founded  on 
a  passionate  Italian  story — are  designed  with  thoughtfulness 
and  skill,  and  wrought  out  with  accomplished  craftsmanship. 
But  it  is  in  poems — half  narrative,  half  reflective — like  '  Through 
the  Solitudes '  or  '  Lugnaquillia,'  where  the  poet's  mind  is  free 
to  roam  at  will  and  follow  up  any  pleasant  path  that  may  pre- 
sent itself,  that  Mr.  Armstrong's  art  is  seen  at  its  best.  It  is 
true  that  in  the  pure  analysis  of  passion  (as  in  the  striking  poem 
4  Sundered  Friendship/  which  won  the  enthusiastic  praise  of 
Sainte-Beuve)  and  in  the  region  of  pure  philosophic  meditation, 
to  which  he  has  devoted  a  complete  volume,  ONE  IN  THE 
INFINITE,  Mr.  Armstrong  has  won  laurels  which  the  critic 
cannot  overlook.  But  he  seems  most  at  home  and  most 
original  when  the  outward  and  the  inward  life  play  into  and 
stimulate  each  other,  and  the  bulk  of  his  work  is  conceived  on 
this  plane  : 

Yet  the  Indefinite,  Awful,  Infinite 

Vibrates  about  me,  and  these  scenes  have  grown 

The  tokens  of  Its  life  and  of  Its  power, 

And,  yielding  to  the  pulses  of  Its  might, 

And  worshipping  before  Its  viewless  throne, 

My  spirit  widens  towards  a  larger  light. 

So  may  that  Voice  still  speak  from  hill,  wave,  flower, 

Love,  to  thy  heart  and  mine. 

Yet  with  all  this  love  and  reverence  for  external  Nature 
Mr.  Armstrong's  feeling  towards  it  differs  markedly  from  that  of 
the  new  Celtic  school,  in  that  it  is  not  mingled  with  the  least 
trace  of  mysticism.  Nature  with  him  is  always  one  thing  ;  God 
is  another  ;  self  a  third.  To  the  mystic  the  scenery  of  the 
inward  and  of  the  outward  life  are  indistinguishably  blended, 
just  as  they  are  in  the  old  Celtic  literature  from  which  the  Irish 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      537 

mystical  poetry  of  to-day  has  sprung.  Mr.  Armstrong's  poetry 
shows  no  sign  in  this  or  any  other  way  of  the  influence  of  the 
Celtic  .literary  tradition.  It  is  simple  and  objective  in  its  con- 
ception, and  forms  the  most  important  body  of  poetic  work  which 
has  been  produced  outside  the  Celtic  tradition  since  the  time 
when  Ferguson  and  Mangan  began  to  lead  the  waters  from 
that  ancient  source  into  the  channels  of  modern  Irish  verse. 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON. 

George  Francis  Savage- Armstrong,  M.A.,  D.Litt.,  was  born  in  the 
County  Dublin,  1845  ;  son  of  the  late  Edmund  J.  Armstrong,  a  descendant 
of  the  Irish  branch  of  the  Armstrongs  of  Mangerton.  Mr.  Armstrong's 
mother  was  a  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Savage,  of  Glastry,  County 
Down.  On  the  death  of  a  maternal  uncle  in  1891,  Mr.  Armstrong  assumed 
the  additional  surname  of  Savage,  as  representative  of  the  Glastry  branch  of 
the  Savages  of  the  Ards,  the  most  ancient  of  the  Anglo-Norman  families 
of  Ulster.  He  was  educated,  partly  by  private  tuition,  in  the  Channel 
Islands  -whither  he  had  accompanied  his  elder  brother,  Edmund  J. 
Armstrong  (q.v. )— and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  among 
other  distinctions  he  won  the  Vice-Chancellor's  prize  for  English  verse 
with  a  poem  on  '  Circassia.'  His  first  literary  work  was  the  editing  of  his 
brother  Edmund's  POEMS.  This  was  shortly  followed,  in  1869,  with  a 
volume  of  POEMS,  LYRICAL  AND  DRAMATIC,  which  won  the  warm 
commendations  of  many  distinguished  critics,  including  Sainte-Beuve.  The 
tragedy  UGONE  followed  next  (1871),  and  after  this  the  TRAGEDY  OF 
ISRAEL  (1872-1876).  Mr.  Armstrong  next  turned  to  a  fresh  edition  of  his 
brother's  writings,  accompanied  with  a  '  Life  and  Letters.'  A  GARLAND 
FROM  GREECE  was  the  fruit  of  a  tour  in  that  country  undertaken  in  1877. 
Next,  after  a  long  break,  came  STORIES  OF  WICKLOW  (1886),  the  fulfil- 
ment of  an  early  poetic  project  which  was  to  have  been  carried  out  in 
concert  with  the  author's  brother;  VICTORIA  REGINA,  a  'Jubilee  Song' 
(1887)  ;  a  satire  entitled  MEPHISTOPHELES  IN  BROADCLOTH  (1888)  ;  ONE 
IN  THE  INFINITE  (1891);  the  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  TERCENTENARY 
ODE  (1892),  set  to  music  by  Sir  Robert  Stewart;  and  a  poem  for  the 
Diamond  Jubilee  (1898),  written  in  a  very  successful  adaptation  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  alliterative  verse.  Mr.  Armstrong  has  also  written  occasional 
prose  articles  in  various  magazines,  and  has  compiled  in  an  interesting 
volume  the  family  history  of  the  Savages  of  the  Ards.  In  1871  he 
was  appointed  to  the  post,  which  he  still  holds,  of  Professor  of  English 
Literature  in  the  Queen's  College,  Cork.  He  is  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal 
University. 


538  BOOK   VI 


THE  SCALP 

STERN  granite  Gate  of  Wicklow,  with  what  awe, 

What  triumph,  oft  (glad  children  strayed  from  home) 
We  passed  into  thy  shadows  cool,  to  roam 

The  Land  beyond,  whose  very  name  could  draw 

A  radiance  to  our  faces  ;  till  we  saw, 

With  airy  peak  and  purple  mountain-dome, 

And  lawn  and  wood  and  blue  bay  flecked  with  foam. 

The  Land  indeed — fair  truth  without  one  flaw  ! 

Never  may  I  with  foot  of  feeble  age 

Or  buoyant  step  of  manhood  pass  thy  pale 
And  feel  not  still  renewed  that  awe,  that  joy 

(Of  the  dim  Past  divinest  heritage) — 

Seeking  the  sacred  realm  thou  dost  unveil, 
Earth's  one  spot  loved  in  love  without  alloy  ! 

A  WICKLOW  SCENE  l 

FROM  THE   SUMMIT   OF   LUGNAQUILLIA 

FOR  many  a  mile  the  tawny  mountains  heaved 
In  rough  confusion.     Here  among  the  heaths 
A  brown  dull  tarn  reflected  the  heaven's  blue, 
Or  the  slow-moving  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Darkened  a  cliff  or  valley.     Northward  far 
Slieve-Cullinn,. dwindled  to  an  arrowy  point, 
Lifted  his  rosy  peak  beyond  grey  Djouce, 
That  in  a  cleft  amid  the  summer  woods 
Showed,  nestling,  Luggela  ;  and  near  us  ran 
The  Avonbeg  by  Fananierin's  base 
Away  to  mingle  with  bright  Avonmore  ; 
And  low  amid  Ovoca's  wooded  vale 
We  traced  the  wedded  waters  to  the  sea  ; 
Then,  turning,  watched  beneath  in  wide  Imahl 
Far-winding  Slaney  glittering  in  the  noon, 
And  fashioned  for  our  fancies  in  the  haze 
Faint  in  the  West  the  rims  of  Galteemore. 


1  From  «  Lugnaquillia'  (STORIES  OF  WICKLOW). 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      539 


WlCKLOW 


YES,  this  is  Wicklow  ;  round  our  feet 
And  o'er  our  heads  its  woodlands  smile  ; 

Behold  it,  love — the  garden  sweet 
And  playground  of  our  stormy  isle. 


Look  round  thee  from  this  wooded  height 
Where,  girdled  in  its  sheltering  trees, 

Our  home  uprears  its  turrets  bright — 
Our  own  dear  home  of  rest  and  peace. 

in 

Is  it  not  fair — the  leafy  land  ? 

Not  boasting  Nature's  sterner  pride, 
Voluptuous  beauty,  scenes  that  stand 

By  minds  immortal  deified  ; 

IV 

Yet  fraught  with  sweet  resistless  spells 
That  wake  a  deep,  a  tranquil  love, 

The  witchery  of  the  ferny  dells, 

The  magic  of  the  murmuring  grove. 


The  ever-present  varying  sea, 

The  graceful  Peaks,  the  violet  hills, 

The  fruitful  lawn  and  flowery  lea, 
The  breezy  moors,  the  golden  rills. 

VI 

A  land  with  every  delicate  tint 

Of  fleeting  shadow,  wandering  light 

Rich  as  the  rainbows  when  they  glint 
O'er  its  own  bays  ere  falls  the  night 

1  From  *  De  Verdun  of  Darragh '  (STORIES  OF  WICKLOW). 


540  BOOK    VI 


VII 


Here  all  the  year  the  mountains  change 
From  month  to  month,  from  hour  to  hour  ; 

Now  rosy-flushed,  now  dim  and  strange, 
Now  sparkling  from  the  sunlit  shower. 


VIII 


Now  far  in  moving  clouds  withdrawn, 
Or  gilt  with  yellowing  fern  and  larch, 

Or  smit  with  crimson  beams  of  dawn, 
Or  silvered  with  the  sleets  of  March. 


IX 


Fair  when  the  first  pale  primrose  shines, 
The  first  gay  moth  the  furze  has  kissed  ; 

When  under  Little  Giltspear's  pines 
The  bluebells  seem  an  azure  mist ; 


When  summer  robes  with  all  her  leaves 
The  rough  ravine,  the  lakelet's  shore  ; 

Or  when  the  reaper  piles  his  sheaves 
Beside  the  pools  of  Avonmore  ; 

XI 

When  the  brown  bee  on  Croghan  bites 
In  eager  haste  the  heathbell  through, 

And  children  climb  Gleneely's  heights 
To  gather  fraughans  fresh  with  dew  ; 

XII 

When  grouse  lie  thick  in  lonely  plots 
On  Lugnaquillia's  lofty  moor, 

And  loud  the  sportsmen's  echoing  shots 
Ring  from  the  rocks  of  Glenmalure. 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      541 


XIII 


Fair  when  the  woodland  strains  and  creaks 
As  loud  the  gathering  whirlwinds  blow, 

And  through  the  smoke-like  mists  the  PeaJks 
In  warm  autumnal  purples  glow  ; 


XIV 


When  madly  toss  the  bracken's  plumes 
Storm-swept  upon  the  seaward  steep, 

As  far  below  them  foams  and  fumes 
On  beach  and  cliff  the  wrathful  deep, 


xv 


Till  cloud  and  tempest,  creeping  lower, 
Old  Djouce's  ridges  swathe  in  night, 

And  down  through  all  his  hollows  pour 
The  foaming  torrents  swoln  and  white  ; 


XVI 


Or  when  o'er  Powerscourt's  leafless  woods, 
With  crests  that  down  the  tempest  lean, 

Bend,  braving  winter's  fiercest  moods, 
The  pines  in  all  their  wealth  of  green. 

XVII 

A  tract  of  quiet  pastoral  knolls  ; 

Of  farms  ;  of  gardens  breathing  balm  ; 
Grey  beaches  where  the  billow  rolls 

With  wandering  voice  in  storm  or  calm ; 

XVIII 

Of  sombre  glen  and  lonely  lake, 

Of  ivied  castles,  ruined  fanes, 
Wild  paths  by  crag  and  skyey  brake, 

And  dewy  fields  and  bowery  lanes  ; 


542  BOOK   VI 


XIX 


With  glimpses  sweet  and  prospects  wide 
Of  sea  and  sky  from  wood  or  scar, 

And  faint  hills  glimmering  from  the  tide 
That  tell  of  other  realms  afar. 


XX 


A  spot  that  owns  the  priceless  charm 
Of  gentle  human  hearts  and  minds — 

A  people  whom  the  roughest  storm 
True  to  its  kindlier  impulse  finds  ; 


XXI 


A  kindly  folk  in  vale  and  moor, 

Unvext  with  rancours,  frank  and  free 

In  mood  and  manners — rich  with  poor 
Attuned  in  happiest  amity  ; 


XXII 


Where  still  the  cottage  door  is  wide, 

The  stranger  welcomed  at  the  hearth, 
•   And  pleased  the  humbler  hearts  confide 
Still  in  the  friend  of  gentler  birth  ; 

XXIII 

A  land  where  alway  God's  right  hand 
Seems  stretching  downward  to  caress 

His  wayward  children  as  they  stand 
And  gaze  upon  its  loveliness. 

THROUGH  THE  SOLITUDES 

i 

IT  was  long  past  the  noon  when  I  pushed  back  my  chair 
In  the  hostel,  slung  knapsack  on  shoulder,  and  walked 

Through  the  low  narrow  room  where  the  folk  from  the  fair 
Old  peasants  deep-wrinkled,  sat  clustered  and  talked 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      543 

In  their  guttural  Gaelic  ;  and  out  through  the  stalls 

Girt  with  marketers  laughing,  and  groups  here  and  there 
Of  maidens  blue-eyed,  hooded  figures  in  shawls 

Of  scarlet,  and  wild  mountain  lads  in  long  hair, 
Rude  carts,  and  rough  ponies  with  creels,  gaily  passed 

Up  the  street  ;  through  the  starers  and  bargainers  prest ; 
And  asked  of  an  idler  my  way  ;  and  at  last 

Struck  out  on  the  hill-road  that  winds  to  the  west. 


II 

And  I  thought,  as  I  strode  by  the  last  heavy  cart 

Moving  earlier  home  than  the  rest  (wife  and  child 
Sitting  close  on  the  trusses  of  straw,  and  apart 

On  the  road,  cracking  whip,  chatting  loud,  laughing  wild, 
The  husband  and  sire  in  knee-breeches  and  shoes), 

Though  it  was  of  the  first  of  such  journeys  to  me 
Since  my  life's  friend  was  lost,  yet  I  dared  not  refuse 

The  gift  of  good  angels  that  even,  the  free 
Glad  heart  in  my  breast,  the  delight  in  my  soul, 

As  I  greeted  the  hill-tops,  and  saw  down  below 
The  sea  winding  in  from  afar,  heard  the  roll 

Of  the  stream  on  the  rocks,  felt  the  autumn  air  blow 
Through  my  hair  as  I  moved  with  light  step  on  the  way  : 

And  I  said,  '  Let  me  drink  to  the  dregs  the  black  cup 
Of  pain  when  'tis  nigh  ;  but  if  joy  come  to-day, 

Let  me  drain  the  last  drop  of  the  daemon-wine  up.' 
Then  I  journeyed  along  through  the  moorlands,  and  crossed 

The  mad  stream  by  the  bridge  at  the  crest  of  the  creek, 
And  wound  up  the  mountain  to  northward,  and  lost 

All  sight  of  the  village  and  hill-folk. 


Ill 

A  bleak 

Heavy  cloud,  dull  and  inky,  crept  over  the  sun 
And  blackened  the  valleys. 


544  BOOK   VI 


IV 

In  under  the  hills 
Ran  the  road,  among  moors  where  the  myrtle  stood  dun, 

And  the  heather  hung  rusted.     The  voice  of  the  rills 
Was  choked  in  grey  rushes.     No  footstep  was  nigh. 

One  rush-covered  hut  smoked  aloft.     Not  a  bird 
Or  a  bee  flittered  by  me.     The  wind  seemed  to  die 

In  the  silence  and  sadness.     No  blade  of  grass  stirred. 
Not  a  tuft  of  the  bog-cotton  swayed.     Lone  and  rude 

Grew  the  path  ;  and  the  hills,  as  I  moved,  stood  apart 
And  opened  away  to  the  drear  solitude. 


Then  a  sorrow  crept  writhingly  over  my  heart 
And  clung  there — a  viper  I  dared  not  fling  off. 

The  sound  of  dear  voices  sang  soft  in  my  ear 
To  mock  me,  dear  faces  came  smiling  to  scoff 

At  my  lone  iness,  making  the  drearness  too  drear. 
Up  the  track,  now  to  right,  now  to  left  as  I  c'omb, 

Weird  visions  came  thronging  in  thick  on  the  brain — 
Of  days  long  forgotten,  of  friends,  of  a  home 

By  death  deso'ated,  of  eyes  that  in  vain 
Gazed  out  for  a  soul  that  no  more  would  come  back, 

Of  one  face  far  away  drawing  out  my  life's  love 

Very  strangely  that  day  to  it. 

Everywhere,  b'ack, 

Storm-shattered,  the  mountains  loomed  lonely  above. 
A  horror,  a  sickness  slipt  down  through  my  blood. 

All  my  thoughts,  all  my  dreams,  all  that  memory's  load, 
All  the  terror  of  loneliness,  broke  like  a  flood 

Over  body  and  soul,  and  I  shrank  from  the  road. 

VI 

I  cowered  at  the  frown  of  the  mountains  that  hung 
On  this  side  and  that ;  and  the  brown  dreary  waste  ; 

The  barren  grey  rocks  far  aloft ;  for  they  wrung 
My  soul  with  dim  fears ;  and  I  yearned  but  to  taste 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      545 

The  sweets  of  companionship,  yearned  to  return 

To  the  far-away  village  ;  to  hear  once  again 
The  buzz  of  kind  voices  about  me ;  to  spurn 

The  sadness  and  horror,  the  fear  and  the  pain. 
Then  I  bent  down  my  head  as  I  moved,  and  my  mind 

Ran  out  in  vague  musings  : 

4  If  God  laid  His  hand 
On  my  life  now,  and  suddenly,  swiftly  consigned 

My  soul,  at  a  breath,  to  the  dim  spirit-land — 
Guiding  on  to  a  world  that  at  best  would  be  strange, 

Would  be  sad  in  its  joys,  in  its  sweetness  unsweet 
To  a  mind  rent  away  in  so  awful  a  change 

From  a  world  of  bright  faces,  the  park  and  the  street, 
And  the  room,  and  the  glances  of  languishing  eyes, 

The  smiles  of  red  lips,  and  the  touch  of  soft  arms, 
The  gay  merry  laughters,  the  happy  love-sighs — 

And  I  found  myself  out  in  a  region  of  storms, 
Out  beating  my  way  through  the  waste,  with  one  star 

In  dark  heavens  to  lead  me  ;  through  regions  unknown, 
Dim  regions  of  midnight  outstretching  afar  ; 

A  bodiless  soul  on  its  journey  alone  : 
Ah,  methinks  I  would  yearn  for  a  land  such  as  this, 

For  a  cloud  that  but  darkens  the  sun,  for  the  strife 
With  dim  dreams,  for  the  heights  that  shut  out  the  near  bliss 

Of  dear  home  for  a  little  .  .  .  O  life  of  my  life, 
My  lost  one,  thou  stay  of  my  childhood,  my  youth, 

Thou  fount  of  my  joys  in  the  days  that  are  gone, 
Where,  where  in  the  darkness,  the  regions  of  drouth, 

The  realm  of  the  dead,  art  thou  journeying  on  ? 
Is  it  strange  to  thee  now,  that  new  being  of  thine  ? 

Dost  thou  fear  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness,  and  yearn 
To  be  back  in  the  sweet  human  throngs,  in  the  shine 

Of  the  bird-waking  sun,  'mid  the  soft  eyes  that  burn 
With  love  and  with  bliss  ?  .  .  art  thou  lonely  as  I  ? 

Art  thou  sad  in  a  world  that  belieth  its  God 
In  its  pitiless  coldness?'  .  .  Then  up  to  the  sky 

I  lifted  my  face,  and  I  cried  unto  God. 


N  N 


546  BOOK   VI 


VII 

And  when  back  from  the  dream  I  had  come,  every  rock 

Had  a  livelier  tinge,  and  the  frown  from  the  heaven 
Had  faded,  the  mountains  no  more  seemed  to  lock 

My  lone  life  in  their  folds  out  of  hate,  and  the  even 
Grew  cheery,  grew  sweet,  and  a  light  wind  upsprung 

'Mid  the  grasses,  and  fanned  me,  and  wooed  me  to  roam 
Through  the  moorland  to  seaward,  and  blissfully  sung 

In  music  as  soothing  as  whispers  of  home. 
And  at  last  when  the  sun  had  gone  down  to  his  sleep, 

And  I  caught  the  Atlantic's  loud  roar  from  the  west, 
Saw  the  flare  of  the  lighthouse,  and  wound  to  the  deep, 

All  awe  of  the  wilds  had  died  out  in  my  breast. 

GAY  PROVENCE 


O'ER  Provence  breathing,  nimble  air, 
Blown  keen  by  dale  and  sea, 

Who  throws  the  throbbing  bosom  bare, 
And  bathes  himself  in  thee, 


Who  feels  thee  clear  on  cheek  and  brows, 
And  quaffs  thee  through  the  lips, 

With  love  and  light  and  music  glows 
From  foot  to  finger-tips. 

in 

He  lives  a  king,  in  court  and  hall, 

'Mid  wail  of  wildering  lyres  ; 
A  priest,  by  carven  cloister-wall 

Or  dim  cathedral-choirs  \ 

IV 

A  knight,  with  airy  lance  in  rest, 

That  rides  in  lonely  vale  ; 
A  page,  by  queenly  hand  caressed, 

By  gate  or  vineyard-pale. 


GEORGE  FRANCIS  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG      547 


He  loiters  in  a  golden  light, 

Is  led  with  dulcet  lure 
By  ghostly  town,  by  towered  height, 

A  tuneful  troubadour. 

VI 

He  pines  for  soft  imagined  eyes 

Where  fictive  fervour  beams, 
And  wooes  with  phantom  tears  and  sighs 

The  faery  dame  of  dreams. 

VII 

O'er  Provence  breathing,  nimble  air, 

Blown  keen  by  dale  and  sea, 
O  subtle,  playful  spirit  rare, 

O  wanton  witchery, 

VIII 

Well,  well  I  love  that  land  of  thine, 

Its  peaks  and  ferny  caves, 
And  fields  of  olive,  orange,  vine, 

Blue  bays,  and  breaking  waves  ! 


WILLIAM   WILKINS 

A  PERFECTLY  genuine  ardour ;  a  keen  delight  in  Nature ;  a 
hearty  self-abandonment  to  emotion  and  imagination ;  a 
fearless  frankness  in  the  utterance  of  personal  thought  and 
feeling  ;  often  a  power  of  calling  up  a  vivid  picture  by  means 
of  a  single  felicitous  original  phrase  ;  a  good  deal  of  rhythmic 
fervour  ;  a  fine  sympathy  with  the  varied  activities  of  human- 
kind ;  a  cultivated  intellectuality,  are  among  the  poetic 
qualities  which  lift  Mr.  Wilkins  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  versifiers, 
and  entitle  him  to  a  place  among  the  poets.  He  has  not  to 
wander  the  world  over  in  search  of  subjects  for  his  song,  or  to 

N  N  2 


548  BOOK   VI 


go  back  for  material  to  the  crudities  of  a  remote  antiquity. 
He  finds  poetry  in  the  objects  that  are  nearest  to  him  and  in 
the  life  of  the  actual  present  ;  in  the  pursuits  and  aspirations 
of  his  fellow-students ;  in  the  moonlit  quadrangles  of  his 
college ;  in  the  whirl  of  the  city  by  which  he  is  surrounded ; 
in  the  blue  Irish  hills  which  draw  him  away  to  their  solitudes  ; 
in  the  sea-that  breaks  upon  familiar  Irish  shores.  It  was  these 
aptitudes  and  these  habits  which  made  his  University  in  his 
college  days  look  forward  with  interest  to  his  future  as  a  poet, 
and  which  still  encourage  us  to  expect  from  him  strong,  virile, 
healthy  poetry,  ennobled  by  the  reflections  of  a  rnaturer  intellect 
and  moulded  with  the  perfection  of  a  more  practised  art. 

G.  F.  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG. 

Mr.  William  Wilkins,  born  in  the  garrison  of  Zante,  Ionian  Islands, 
on  August  21,  1852,  is  the  second  surviving  son  of  the  late  Dr.  William 
Mortimer  Wilkins,  who  was  surgeon  to  the  4ist  Regiment,  and  served 
in  the  Peninsula  and  in  India.  Having  received  his  early  education  at 
Dundalk  Grammar  School,  under  Dr.  Flynn,  he  entered  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  where  his  career  was  brilliant.  At  college  at  the  same  time  with 
him  were  his  two  brothers- George,  who  is  now  a  Fellow  of  Trinity,  and 
Charles,  who  died  in  1878  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-two,  and  in  whose 
memory  has  been  established  the  prize  known  as  the  '  Wilkins  Prize.'  In 
his  first  year  at  college  Mr.  Wilkins  won  the  Vice-Chancellor's  Prize  for 
English  verse  by  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  Columbus,  and  the  following 
year  he  made  a  name  for  himself  as  a  poet  by  his  earliest  contributions  to 
Kottabos.  Equally  distinguished  in  Modern  Literature  and  in  Mathematics, 
Mr.  Wilkins  graduated  with  the  best  degree  of  his  year  in  1878.  In  the 
following  year  he  was  appointed  headmaster  of  the  High  School,  Dublin, 
the  duties  of  which  position  he  still  continues  to  discharge. 

Mr.  Wilkins's  chief  work  is  :  SONGS  OF  STUDY,  1881. 

From  ACTION 

IT  was  on  the  Mount  Cithaeron,  in  the  pale  and  misty  morn, 
That  the  hero,  young  Actaeon,  sounded  the  hunter's  horn. 
Princeliest  of  pursuers  of  the  flying  roe  was  he, 
Son  of  great  Aristaeus  and  Theban  Autonoe. 
Oak-like  in  massy  stature  and  carriage  of  kingly  limb — 
Lo  !  the  broad,  brave  grace,  and  the  fleet,  fine  might  of  manhood's 
fair  prime  in  him, 


WILLIAM   WILKINS  549 

Grandly  brow'd  as  a  sea-cliff  with  the  curling  waves  at  its  base, 
And  its  storm-haunted  crest  a  tangle  of  deep  ripe  weeds  and  grass. 
And  many  an  Arcadian  maiden  thought  not  of  a  maicten's  pride, 
But  looked  on  the  youth  with  longing,  and  watch'd  as  he  went, 

and  sighed  ; 

And  yEgle  had  proffer'd  a  jewel  that  a  queen  might  carefully  keep 
For  a  favouring  smile  of  the  hunter  and  a  touch  of  his  beardless 

lip; 

But  never  on  dame  or  damsel  had  his  falcon  glance  made  stay, 
And  he  turn'd  from  the  love-sick  /Egle,  and  toss'd  her  gifts  away. 

For  where  was  so  soft  a  bower,  or  where  so  goodly  a  hall, 
As  the  dell  where  the  echoes  listen'd  to  the  noise  of  the  waterfall  ? 
And  where  was  there  cheek  of  woman  as  lovely  to  soul  and  sense 
As  the  gracious  hues  of  the  woodlands  in  depths  of  the  stately 

glens  ? 

And  where  were  there  eyes  or  tresses  as  gloriously  dark  or  bright 
As   the  flood  of  the  wild  Alpheus   as   it  pour'd  from  the  lonely 

height  ? 

So  the  hero,  young  Actseon,  fled  far  from  the  girl-fill'd  house, 

To   rove  with  the  beamy  spear-shaft  through  the  budded  forest 

boughs. 

And  sweeter  than  smiles  of  ALgle  or  sheen  of  her  rippling  hair 
Were   the   heads   of  his  great  hounds  fawning,  or  snuffing  the 

morning  air  ; 
And  to  tread  by  the  precipices  that  down  from  his  feet  shore 

clean  ; 
And  to  mark  where  the  dappled  leopard  was  couch'd  in  the  long 

ravine  ; 
And  to  look  at  the  eagle  wheeling  up  peak-ward,  and  hear  him 

scream  ; 
And  to  plant  strong  steps  in  the  meadows,  and  plash  through  the 

babbling  stream  ; 
And  to  hurl  the  spear  in  the  thicket,  and  draw  the  bow  in  the 

glade, 
And   to   rush   on    the  foaming   fury  of   the  boar  by   the   dogs 

embayed  ; 


550  BOOK   VI 


And  ever  in  midland  valley  to  smell  the  leaves  and  the  grass, 

Or  the  brine-scent  blown  o'er  the  headlands  high  up  to  the  bare 

hill-pass, 

Where,  lovelier  far  than  ^gle  or  her  eyes'  bright  witchery, 
Was  Morning,  born  of  the  marriage  of  silent  Sky  and  Sea. 

So  the  hunter,  young  Actaeon,  to  the  Mount  Cithaeron  came, 
And  blew  his  horn,  in  the  dank,  white  morn,  to  startle  the  sleeping 

game  ; 
Nor  thought,  as  the  pealing  echoes  were  clatter'd  from  crag  to 

crag, 
That  Fate  on  his  trace  held  him  in  chase,  as  a  huge  hound  holds 

a  stag. 

By   rock   and  by  rift  and  runnel,  by  marsh   and   meadow   and 

mound, 
He  went,  with  his  dogs  beside  him,  and  marvell'd  no  game  was 

found  ; 
Till  the  length   of  the   whole   green  gorge  and   the   grey  cliffs 

gleaming  on  high 

Rang  and  re-echoed  with  horns  and  the  musical  hunting-cry  ; 
And  the  hounds  broke  out  of  the  cover,  all  baying  together  in 

tune  ; 

And  the  hart  sprang  panting  before  them  along  up  the  lawns  dew- 
strewn  ; 
And  a  bevy  of  buskin' d  virgins,  dove-breasted,  broke  from   the 

bowers, 
With  spears  half-poised  for  the  hurling,  and  tresses  tangled  with 

flowers ; 

Their  lips,  rose-ruddy,  disparted  to  draw  their  delightsome  breath 
For  the  chase,  and  the  cheer  thereof  ringing  the  rapture  of  dealing 

death — 

The  fine  heads  eagerly  lifted,  the  pitiless  fair  eyes  fix'd  ; 
The  cheeks,  flower-fresh,  flush'd   flower-like — rich  lily,  rich  rose 

commix'd ; 

The  slender  feet  flying  swiftly,  the  slight  shapes  rushing  like  reeds 
When  the  Thracian   breezes   of  winter  descend  on  the   marshy 

meads  ; 

So  swept  they  along  like  music,  and  wilder'd  Actaeon  stood 
Till  the  last  of  the  maiden  rangers  was  lost  in  the  leaning  wood. 


WILLIAM   WILKIXS  551 


DISILLUSION 

1  Say  a  day  without  the  ever.' 

As   You  Like  It. 

YOUR  proud  eyes  give  me  their  wearied  splendour ; 

Your  cold  loose  touch  and  your  colder  smile 
The  truth  to  my  jealous  heart  surrender  : 

You  tire,  having  loved  me  a  little  while. 
Ah  !  well,  my  sweet,  I  was  sure  you  would, 

For  I  knew  you  false  when  I  saw  you  fair. 
I  have  watched  and  watched  for  your  altered  mood, 

And  have  schooled  me  so  that  I  shall  not  care. 

The  knoll's  blue  bonnet,  the  dell's  green  mantle, 

The  mid-wood  hollow  where  waters  run, 
The  bare,  stained  shore,  with  its  white  surf-sandal, 

The  sudden  smile  of  the  gallant  sun — 
Will  change  not,  be  you  or  sweet  or  bitter  : 

A  heart  after  all  is  hard  to  break  ; 
But  the  world  at  sweetest  were  surely  sweeter 

If  only  sweet  for  your  own  sweet  sake. 

Yea,  I  know  right  well,  if  our  love  were  sterling 

We  had  drained  the  earth  and  the  skies  of  joy  ; 
But  I— God  wot— and  you  too,  my  darling, 

No  rare  fair  flower  of  girl  and  boy  : 
How  should  we  rise  to  such  exaltation 

As  climbs  from  a  cloud  a  splendid  star  ? 
How  live — how  love  with  such  perfect  passion, 

We — who  are  only  what  others  are  ? 


MAGAZINE  FORT,  PHCENIX  PARK,  DUBLIN 

INSIDE  its  zig-zag  lines  the  little  camp  is  asleep, 

Embalm'd  in  the  infinite  breath  of  the  greensward,  the  river,  the 
stars. 

Round  the  staff,  the  yellow  leopards  of  England,  weary  of  wars, 
Curl  and  uncurl,  to  the  murmurous  voice  of  the  greenwood  deep. 


552  BOOK   VI 


On  the  lonely  terrace  their  watch  the  shadowy  sentinels  keep, 
Each  bayonet  a  spire  of  silver — high  over  the  silvery  jars 
Of  the  streamtide,  swooning  in  starlight  adown  its  foam-fretted 

bars 

To  the  city,  that  lies  in  a  shroud  as  of  ashes  under  the  steep. 
To  the  south  are  the  hills  everlasting  ;  eastward  the  sea-capes 

and  isles  ; 
Inland,  the  levels  of  emerald  stretch  for  a  hundred  miles. 


GEORGE  ARTHUR  GREENE 

OF  a  distinguished  Anglo-Irish  stock,  George  Arthur  Greene 
was  born  at  Florence  on  February  21,  1853,  in  that  Casa 
Capponi  in  which  Lever,  a  family  friend,  had  written  his 
CHARLES  O'MALLEY.  His  father,  the  Rev.  H.  Greene,  had 
been  for  many  years  British  Chaplain  at  Pisa  and  Lucca,  and 
most  of  his  own  youth  was  spent  in  Italy. 

Educated  first  at  a  French  school  in  Florence,  and  then  at 
the  Institute  di  Studi  Superiori  in  that  city,  he  afterwards 
entered  Dublin  University,  and  there  obtained  the  highest 
distinctions  in  the  Romance  Languages  as  well  as  in  English 
Literature.  He  was  in  1876  appointed  Professor  of  English 
Literature  in  the  Alexandra  College,  Dublin.  He  is  now 
settled  in  London. 

As  vice-chairman  of  the  committee  of  the  Irish  Literary 
Society  of  London  he  has  become  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
new  Irish  literary  movement,  by  contributing  valuable  papers 
and  addresses  on  Irish  history  to  its  proceedings,  and  has  turned 
his  linguistic  talent  to  the  study  of  Irish,  throwing  himself 
actively  into  the  work  of  the  newly  established  Irish  Texts 
Society.  His  contributions  to  the  two  volumes  of  the  Rhymers' 
Club  and  to  DUBLIN  VERSES  BY  MEMBERS  OF  TRINITY 
COLLEGE  have  gained  him  acceptance  as  a  song-writer  and 
sonneteer  of  fine  poetic  quality. 


GEORGE  ARTHUR   GREENE  553 

In  1893  was  published  his  ITALIAN  LYRISTS  OF  TO-DAY 
(now  'in  its  second  edition) — by  far  the  most  brilliant  series 
of  translations  from  the  modern  Italian  writers  that  has  yet 
appeared.  These  translations  possess  the  interest  of  being  in 
the  original  metres  used  by  some  thirty  Italian  writers  living  at 
the  time  of  their  publication. 

ARTS  LOUGH 

GLENMALURE,    COUNTY   WICKLOW 

LONE  lake,  half  lost  amidst  encircling  hills, 

Beneath  the  imprisoning  mountain-crags  concealed, 
Who  hest  to  the  wide  earth  unrevealed, 

To  whose  repose  the  brief  and  timorous  rills 

Bring  scarce  a  murmur— thou  whose  sight  instils 
Despair,  o'er  whom  his  dark  disdainful  shield 
Abrupt  Clogherna  'gainst  the  sun  doth  wield, 

And  thy  dim  face  with  deepening  shadow  fills  — 

O  poet  soul  !  companionless  and  sad, 

Though  half  the  daytime  long  a  death-like  shade 
Athwart  thy  depths  with  constant  horror  lies, 

Thou  art  not  ever  in  dejection  clad, 

But  showest  still,  as  in  a  glass  displayed, 
The  limitless,  unfathomable  skies. 

ON  GREAT  SUGARLOAF 

WHERE  Sugarloaf  with  bare  and  ruinous  wedge 
Cleaves  the  grey  air  to  view  the  darkening  sea, 
We  stood  on  high,  and  heard  the  northwind  flee 

Through  clouds  storm-heavy  fallen  from  ledge  to  ledge. 

Then  sudden  *  Look  ! '  we  cried.     The  far  black  edge 
Of  south  horizon  oped  in  sunbright  glee, 
And  a  broad  water  shone,  one  moment  free, 

Ere  darkness  veiled  again  the  wavering  sedge. 


554  BOOK   VI 


Such  is  the  Poet's  inspiration,  still 

Too  evanescent  !  coming  but  to  go  : 
Such  the  great  passions  showing  good  in  ill, 

Quick  brightnesses,  love-lights  too  soon  burnt  low  : 
And  such  man's  life,  which  flashes  Heaven's  will 
Between  two  glooms  a  transitory  glow. 


THE  RETURN 

ITALIAN  lakes,  transparent  blue, 
Where,  mirrored  in  the  waters  deep, 
The  wraith  of  every  hill  asleep 

Dreams  all  the  day-time  through  : 

And  heights  of  Alp  with  winter  hoar, 

And  olivets  of  Apennine, 

Where  the  grey,  twisted  woods  incline 
Down  to  the  dark  seashore  : 

Valdarno  with  its  rounding  hills 

That  hem  it  from  the  invading  north, 
Whence  o'er  Morello  bursting  forth 

The  tramontana  shrills  : 

Maremma  shores  all  fever-pale, 
Where  slow  the  evening  mist  outspread 
Covers  the  coast  from  head  to  head, 

And  poisons  every  vale  ; 

Cyclopean  cities,  silent,  vast, 

Stretched,  all  one  wilderness  of  stones, 
Like  some  colossal  mammoth's  bones 

From  a  forgotten  past : 

And  Rome  the  great»  eternal,  dread, 

Whose  feet  stand  in  the  depths  of  Time, 
Grown  old  in  fame  and  still  sublime, 

She  lifts  her  meteor  head 


GEORGE  ARTHUR  GREENE  555 

Like  Memnon's  statue,  grandly  dumb, 

Standing  for  ever  bold,  erect, 

With  open  eyes  that  still  expect 
The  sunrise  that  shall  come — 

Rome  the  Republic — Empire— she 
The  footstool  of  three  hundred  Popes — 
Rome  of  the  newer,  wider  hopes 

That  pulse  through  Italy — 

Aye,  Rome  the  eternal  city,  throned 

Upon  the  seven  sacred  hills, 

And  by  the  people's  patient  wills 
Made  new,  her  crimes  atoned  : 

0  unforgotten  southern  skies  ! 

Though  now  I  plough  the  northward  sea, 
The  white-winged  memories  fly  with  me, 
The  young  hopes  re-arise. 

And  yet,  though  sweet  the  sunburnt  South 
When  daylight  ebbs  o'er  west  and  east, 
The  North  shall  not  obtain  the  least 

Of  praises  from  my  mouth  ; 

For,  now  returned  from  golden  lands, 

I  see  Night  lift  her  misty  shroud, 

And  through  the  veil  of  morning  cloud 
The  sun  strikes  northern  sands  ; 

1  hail  with  joy  the  early  ray 

That  gleams  o'er  valleys  thrice  more  dear  ; 
My  pulse  beats  quicker  as  I  hear 
Up  from  Killiney  Bay 

The  whisper  of  familiar  rills  ; 

And  sudden  tremors  veil  mine  eyes 

As,  at  a  turn,  before  me  rise, 
Long  sought,  the  Wicklow  Hills. 


556  BOOK   VI 


LINES 

SURELY  a  Voice  hath  called  her  to  the  deep— 
The  deep  of  heaven,  star  calling  unto  star  : 

Surely  she  passed  but  through  the  vale  of  sleep 
That  hideth  from  our  hearts  the  things  that  are. 

Surely  the  ringing  music  of  the  spheres 
Sounds  richlier  to-day  by  one  pure  voice  : 

Ah  !  though  we  mourn  its  silence  with  our  tears, 
The  stars  we  hear  not,  hearing  it,  rejoice. 


WILLIAM   KNOX  JOHNSON, 

Author  of  TERRA  TENEBRARUM  (1897),  from  which  this  poem 
is  taken  ;  a  native  of  County  Kildare,  now  a  Civil  Servant  in 
Benares.  Mr.  Johnson  has  published  a  striking  but  unequal 
poem  on  the  '  Death  of  Mangan,'  and  has  written  an  admirable 
criticism  on  him  as  an  interpreter  of  the  Celtic  genius  to 
English  readers. 

AN  ANNIVERSARY 

How  sweetly  keen,  how  stirred  the  air  ! 

The  woods  are  thrilled  at  touch  of  spring  ; 
Along  the  road  from  Chateau  Vert 

Gaily  the  thrushes  sing. 

No  stranger  here  I  come  to-day  ! 

I  know  the  river  winding  slow, 
This  haze  of  blue,  with  green  and  grey  ; 

And  all  the  flowers  I  know. 

With  you  I  plucked  them  ;  now,  alone. 

The  slope  is  starred  with  shaken  flame 
Three  times  the  daffodils  have  blown 

Since  we  together  came. 


WILLIAM  KNOX  JOHNSON  557 

A  fire  was  in  our  souls  ;  we  spoke 

Of  Fate,  the  evil  reign  of  things 
How  good  men  ever  spurn  the  yoke 

That  tyrant  Nature  brings. 

'  She  knows  no  God  ;  her  law  is  hate. 

Brave  deed  and  duty  still  remain  ; 
Justice  and  Love  we  must  create, 

Whose  quest  of  Love  is  vain.' 

My  hope  was  set  across  the  seas  ; 

I'd  till  a  land  with  freer  men, 
Where  greed  no  more  the  heart  should  freeze, 

And  Pity  rule  again. 

In  widening  current  from  our  shore 
The  great  gulf-stream  of  joy  should  flow  ; 

Nations,  their  lethargy  past  o'er, 
Should  feel  the  answering  glow,! 

Three  years  !  and  under  dusking  skies 
To-night  you  cross  the  stream  with  me. 

I  cannot  turn,  those  ardent  eyes, 
That  eager  mien  to  see. 

I  dare  not  look  upon  your  face 

Our  dreams  I  sold  for  daily  bread 
I  mingle  with  the  accursed  race, 

Dead — with  the  living  dead  ! 

Yet  hear  ! — ah  no  !  far  northward  now 

In  Aran  of  the  mighty  wave 
The  thunder  of  the  surges  slow 

Rolls-  round  your  ocean  grave. 

High  on  the  rocky  spur  you  lie, 

A  splendour  floods  the  solemn  west, 
The  voices  of  the  sea  go  by, 

And  night  is  thine— and  rest. 


558  BOOK    VI 


W.    E.    H.    LECKY 

MR.  LECKY  is  well  known  as  the  historian  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  whose  deep  research  and  unwavering  rectitude  in 
dealing  with  the  stormy  history  of  his  own  country  have  set  so 
high  an  example  to  future  writers.  He  was  born  in  County 
Dublin,  1838.  He  was  educated  in  Trinity  College,  and  now 
(1900)  represents  his  University  in  Parliament.  His  POEMS 
were  published  in  1891. 

UNDEVELOPED  LIVES 

NOT  every  thought  can  find  its  words, 

Not  all  within  is  known  ; 
For  minds  and  hearts  have  many  chords 

That  never  yield  their  tone. 

Tastes,  instincts,  feelings,  passions,  powers, 

Sleep  there  unfelt,  unseen  ; 
And  other  lives  lie  hid  in  ours — 

The  lives  that  might  have  been. 

Affections  whose  transforming  force 

Could  mould  the  heart  anew  ; 
Strong  motives  that  might  change  the  course 

Of  all  we  think  and  do. 

Upon  the  tall  cliff's  cloud-wrapt  verge 

The  lonely  shepherd  stands, 
And  hears  the  thundering  ocean  surge 

That  sweeps  the  far-off  strands  ; 

And  thinks  in  peace  of  raging  storms 

Where  he  will  never  be — 
Of  life  in  all  its  unknown  forms 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea. 


W.  E.  H.  LECKY  559 


So  in  our  dream  some  glimpse  appears, 

Though  soon  it  fades  again, 
How  other  lands  or  times  or  spheres 

Might  make  us  other  men  ; 

How  half  our  being  lies  in  trance, 

Nor  joy  nor  sorrow  brings, 
Unless  the  hand  of  circumstance 

Cart  touch  the  latent  strings. 

We  know  not  fully  what  we  are, 

Still  less  what  we  might  be  ; 
But  hear  faint  voices  from  the  far 

Dim  lands  beyond  the  sea. 

THE  SOWER  AND  HIS  SEED 

HE  planted  an  oak  in  his  father's  park 

And  a  thought  in  the  minds  of  men, 
And  he  bade  farewell  to  his  native  shore, 

Which  he  never  will  see  again. 
Oh,  merrily  stream  the  tourist  throng 

To  the  glow  of  the  Southern  sky ; 
A  vision  of  pleasure  beckons  them  on, 

But  he  went  there  to  die. 

The  oak  will  grow  and  its  boughs  will  spread, 

And  many  rejoice  in  its  shade, 
But  none  will  visit  the  distant  grave, 

Where  a  stranger  youth  is  laid  ; 
And  the  thought  will  live  when  the  oak  has  died, 

And  quicken  the  minds  of  men, 
But  the  name  of  the  thinker  has  vanished  away, 

And  will  never  be  heard  again. 


56o  BOOK   VI 


THE    '  KOTTABISTAI ' 

AN  anthology  of  Anglo-Irish  verse  would  be  incomplete  if  it 
did  not  include  within  it  some  selections  representative  of 
an  interesting  literary  movement  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
which  has  been  marked  by  the  publication  of  successive 
numbers  of  a  college  magazine  entitled  Kottabos,  between  the 
year  1874  and  the  present  day.  Kottabos  owed  its  origin,  and 
much  of  its  lustre,  to  the  eminent  classical  scholar,  Professor 
Robert  Yelverton  Tyrrell,  F.T.C.D.,  who  for  many  years  acted 
as  its  editor.  It  was  primarily  a  magazine  of  Greek  and  Latin 
compositions  written  by  Trinity  College  men,  but  it  was  open 
also  to  contributions,  from  the  same  source,  of  original 
English  verse  and  of  English  verse-translations.  In  such  a 
miscellany  we  could  not  expect  to  find  the  productions  of 
many  born  poets.  Born  poets  are  not  numerous  in  any 
generation,  and  when  they  do  appear  they  are  seldom 
gregarious  ;  they  are  disposed  to  *  dwell  apart ; '  their  utter- 
ances are  not  often  of  the  kind  that  fits  them  to  take  a  place 
side  by  side  with  the  productions  of  the  '  elegant  trifler '  in 
verse.  To  Kottabos  some  writers  of  unmistakable  kinship 
with  the  genuine  poets  did  occasionally  contribute ;  but  these 
cannot  be  numbered  with  the  typical  '  Kottabistai.'  The 
typical  '  Kottabistai'  have  been  men  of  culture  and  scholarship, 
who  have  written  English  verse  at  that  period  of  life  at  which 
men  are  most  enthusiastic,  most  emotional,  most  enamoured 
of  beauty,  most  ambitious,  most  receptive,  and  most  imitative. 
Kottabos  encouraged  a  taste  for  English  verse- writing,  just  as  it 
encouraged  a  taste  for  Greek  and  Latin  verse-writing ;  and 
between  the  accomplished  contributor  of  English  verse  and 
the  accomplished  contributor  of  Greek  and  Latin  verse  there 
was  generally  a  close  affinity.  Many  of  the  English  verse- 
compositions — like  some  by  Mulvany,  Hartley,  Mr.  S.  K. 
Cowan,  and  Professor  Tyrrell— were  excellent  parodies; 
many — like  some  by  Professor  Dowden,  Dr.  Todhunter,  and 
Professor  Tyrrell — were  deliberate  and  acknowledged  studies 


THE  'KOTTABISTAP  561 

of  the  styles  of  eminent  masters  ;  many — like  some  by 
De  Burgh,  Dr.  Todhunter,  Mr.  Newcomen,  Mr.  George 
Wilkins,  and  Mr.  Rolleston— were  clever  translations;  many 
were  unconscious  imitations  of  poets  who  happened  at  the 
moment  to  be  in  vogue.  Often  the  lyrics  were  humorous  and 
very  amusing  ;  often  they  contained  just  enough  spontaneous 
personal  emotion  to  be  very  nearly  genuine  poems  ;  occasionally 
they  were  genuine  poems.  A  few  of  the  early  contributors  to 
Kottabos  have  proved  that  the  poetic  impulse  of  their  college 
days  was  not  transient ;  their  poetical  individuality  has  shown 
itself  to  be  strong  and  persistent ;  and  to  these  must  be 
assigned  separate  places  in  every  anthology  of  modern  Irish 
verse.  On  the  other  hand,  some  who  did  very  good  and  even 
promising  work  in  those  days  have  gone  to  the  grave  without 
having  accomplished  anything  better  ;  and  some  had  not  yet 
had  time  to  prove  whether  their  early  fervour  was  the  enduring 
spirit  of  poetry  or  not.  From  these  two  latter  classes,  with 
hesitation  and  with  diffidence,  and  not  without  a  misgiving 
that  writers  as  worthy  have  been  omitted,  the  names  of  Charles 
Pelham  Mulvany,  John  Martley,  Professor  Palmer,  and  Percy 
Somers  Payne  have  been  selected. 

G.  F.  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG. 


CHARLES   PELHAM    MULVANY 

CHARLES  PELHAM  MULVANY  was  born  in  Dublin  on  May  20, 
1835.  He  was  educated  in  Dublin,  and  took  his  degree  of 
B.A.  at  Trinity  College  in  1856.  For  a  time  he  was  a  surgeon 
in  the  Royal  Navy,  but  subsequently  entered  Holy  Orders, 
and  went  to  reside  in  Canada,  where  he  died  after  a  very 
chequered  career  on  May  31,  1885.  Besides  his  many 
contributions  to  Kottabos,  he  published  verses  in  The  Nation, 
The  Irish  Metropolitan  Magazine,  and,  we  believe,  in  The 
College  Magazine,  which  he  edited. 

Mulvany's  works  are  :— LYRICS  OF  HISTORY  AND  OF  LIFE 

o  o 


562  BOOK    VI 


(1880) ;  A  HISTORY  OF  BRANT,  ONTARIO  (1883)  :  TORONTO, 
PAST  AND  PRESENT  (1884) ;  HISTORY  OF  THE  NORTH- WEST 
REBELLION  OF  1885  (1886). 

Mulvany  is  less  of  a  poet  than  of  a  clever  and  humorous 
parodist.  His  serious  poems  are  often  pervaded  by  a  melan- 
choly not  unlike  Edgar  Allan  Poe's.  They  generally  begin 
well,  but,  like  the  productions  of  most  writers  of  his  degree, 
fall  off  towards  the  close. 

G.  F.  S.-A. 
EMMELINE 

WHY  sit.  st  thou  by  the  shore, 

Emmeline  ? 
Why  sportest  thou  no  more, 

Emmeline  ? 

'Mid  those  oozy-looking  damsels  just  emerging  from  the  brine, 
Thy  blue  eyes  on  the  blue  water  why  so  sadly  dost  incline, 
Looking  wistful 
And  half  tristful 

Emmeline  ? 

One  summer  morn  like  this, 

Emmeline, 
Thy  heart  beat  close  to  his, 

Emmeline  ! 

And  I  rather  think  he  took  the  liberty  to  twine 
His  arm  just  for  one  moment  round  that  slender  waist  of  thine  ; 
Oh  !  wasn't  it  imprudent 
For  a  penniless  law-student, 
Emmeline  ? 

He  loves  you,  th^  poor  wretch  ! 

Emmeline  ; 
But  there's  many  a  better  catch, 

Emmeline. 

Cut  him  dead  when  next  you  meet  him,  burn  his  letters  every  line, 
And  deserve  the  eligible  match  your  dearest  friends  assign. 
He  is  but  a  poor  and  true  man, 
You  a  lady  (not  a  woman), 
Emmeline. 


CHARLES  PELHAM  MULVANY  563 

LONG  DESERTED 
YON  old  house  in  moonlight  sleeping, 

Once  it  held  a  lady  fair, 
Long  ago  she  left  it  weeping, 

Still  the  old  house  standeth  there — 
That  old  pauper  house  unmeet  for  the  pleasant  village  street — 

With  its  eyeless  window  sockets, 

And  its  courts  all  grass  o'ergrown, 
And  the  weeds  above  its  doorway 

Where  the  flowers  are  carved  in  stone, 
And  its  chimneys  lank  and  high  like  gaunt  tombstones  on  the  sky. 

Ruin'd,  past  all  care  and  trouble, 

Like  the  heir  of  some  old  race 
Whose  past  glories  but  redouble 

Present  ruin  and  disgrace, 
For  whom  none  are  left  that  bear  hope  or  sorrow  anywhere. 

Lost  old  house  !  and  I  was  happy 

'Neath  thy  shade  one  summer  night, 
When  on  one  that  walk'd  beside  me 

Gazed  I  by  the  lingering  light, 
In  the  depths  of  her  dark  eyes  searching  for  my  destinies. 

There  within  our  quiet  garden 

Fell  that  last  of  happy  eves 
Through  the  gold  of  the  laburnum 

And  the  thickening  lilac  leaves  ; 
There  the  winter  winds  are  now  sighing  round  each  leafless  bough. 

.  Haunted  house  !  and  do  they  whisper 

That  the  wintry  moon-rays  show, 

Glancing  through  thy  halls,  a  ghastly 

Phantasy  of  long  ago, 
And  thy  windows  shining  bright  with  a  spectral  gala  light  ? 

Vain  and  idle  superstition  ! 

Thee  no  spectral  rays  illume  ; 
But  one  shape  of  gentlest  beauty 

I  can  conjure  from  thy  gloom, 
In  whose  sad  eyes  I  can  see  ghosts  that  haunt  my  memory. 

002 


564  BOOK   VI 


JOHN    HARTLEY 

JOHN  HARTLEY,  the  third  son  of  Hr.  Henry  Hartley,  Q.C., 
afterwards  a  Judge  of  the  Landed  Estates  Court,  Ireland,  was 
horn  in  Dublin  on  Hay  15,  1844.  He  was  educated  at 
Cheltenham  College  at  St.  Columba's  College,  Rathfarnham ; 
and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  took  his  degree  c  f 
B.A.  in  1866.  In  1875  ne  was  called  to  the  Irish  Bar,  bur, 
obtaining  an  appointment  in  the  Landed  Estates  Court,  he 
did  not  practise.  He  wrote  both  for  Kottabos  and  for  Froth, 
a  Dublin  periodical  (1879).  He  married  Hiss  Frances 
Howorth,  sister  of  Hr.  H.  Howorth,  H.P.,  and  died  of 
consumption  on  August  25,  1882. 

Hartley's  work  is :  FRAGMENTS  IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE 
(published  posthumously,  1883). 

Hartley,  like  Hulvany,  excelled  as  a  parodist  ;  but  his 
parodies  lack  the  completeness  and  the  original  surprises  of 
Hulvany's.  His  serious  poems  have  the  same  tendency  to 
lose  force  and  power  as  they  advance.  He  manifests  a  higher 
culture,  a  greater  tenderness,  and  a  purer  taste  than  Hulvany ; 
and  his  skill  in  versification  is  sometimes,  though  not  always, 
masterly. 

G.  F.  S.-A. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SHANGANAGH 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE   AIR    '  THE   WEARING  OF  THE   GREEN  ' 

IN  the  Valley  of  Shanganagh,  where  the  songs  of  skylarks  teem, 
And  the  rose  perfumes  the  ocean-breeze,  as  love  the  hero's  dream, 
'Twas  there  I  wooed  my    Maggie.     In   her  dark  eyes  there  did 

dwell 
A  secret  that  the  billows  knew,  but  yet  could  never  tell. 

Oh  1  light  as  fairy  tread  her  voice  fell  on  my  bounding  heart ; 
And  like  the  wild  bee  to  the  flower  still  clinging  we  would  part. 
'  Sweet  Valley  of  Shanganagh,'  then  I  murmur'd,  '  though  I  die, 
My  soul  will  never  leave  thee  for  the  heaven  that's  in  the  sky  ! ' 


JOHN  MARTLET  565 

In  the  Valley  of  Shanganagh,  where  the  sullen  sea-gulls  gleam, 
And   the  pine-scent  fills  the  sighing  breeze  as  death  the  lover's 

dream, 

'Twas  there  I  lost  my  Maggie.     Why  that  fate  upon  us  fell 
The  powers  above  us  knew,  perhaps,  if  only  they  would  tell. 

Oh  !  like  the  tread  of  mournful  feet  it  fell  upon  my  heart, 
When,  as  the  wild  bee  leaves  the  rose,  her  spirit  did  depart. 
In  the  Valley  still  I  linger,  though  it's  lain  I  am  to  die, 
But  it's  hard  to  find  a  far-off  heaven  when  clouds  are  in  the  sky. 

A  BUDGET  OF  PARADOXES 

CHILD  in  thy  beauty  ;  empress  in  thy  pride  ; 
Sweet  and  unyielding  as  the  summer's  tide  ; 
Starlike  to  tremble,  starlike  to  abide. 

Guiltless  of  wounding,  yet  more  true  than  steel 
Gem-like  thy  light  to  flash  and  to  conceal  ; 
Tortoise  to  bear,  insect  to  see  and  feel. 

Blushing  and  shy,  yet  dread  we  thy  disdain  ; 
Smiling,  a  sunbeam  fraught  with  hints  of  rain  ; 
Trilling  love-notes  to  freedom's  fierce  refrain. 

The  days  are  fresh,  the  hours  are  wild  and  sweet, 
When  spring  and  winter,  dawn  and  darkness  meet ; 
Nymph,  with  one  welcome,  thee  and  these  we  greet. 


ARTHUR   PALMER 

BORN  in  Canada  about  1842  ;  scholar  of  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  1 86 1  ;  Fellow,  1867  ;  Professor  of  Latin,  1880,  Mr. 
Palmer  won  high  distinction  in  the  world  of  learning  by  his 
editions  of  Ovid  (HEROIDES)  and  Propertius.  He  died  in  1897. 
His  contributions  to  KOTTABOS,  whether  in  English  or  the 
classical  tongues,  show  a  peculiar  delicacy  as  well  as  dignity  of 


566  BOOK   VI 


phrase ;  and  some  of  his  Latin  lines,  such  as  In  tacitis  silvis 
altum  finivit  amorem,  for  Keats's  '  There  in  the  forest  did  his 
great  love  cease,'  dwell  in  the  memory  like  certain  lines  of  Virgil. 

T.  W.  R. 

EPICHARIS 

TAG.    '  ANN.'  XV.  57 

MOTIONLESS,  in  a  dark,  cold  cell  in  Rome, 

A  woman,  bruised  and  burnt,  but  breathing  still, 

Lay  all  alone,  and  thus  her  weak,  wan  lips 

Whispered  to  high  Jove  from  that  dungeon  floor  : 

'  I  am  a  poor  weak  woman,  O  ye  gods, 

And  now  I  ask  forgiveness,  lying  here 

(I  have  no  strength  to  rise  upon  my  knees), 

For  all  the  heavy  sins  that  I  have  done. 

Remember,  O  just  gods,  that  this  is  Rome, 

And  I  a  woman,  and  the  weakest  born. 

Could  such  a  woman,  nursed  in  such  a  city, 

Live  righteously,  as  high-born  maidens  live  ? 

A  poor,  fair  slave,  on  Rome's  waste  ocean  thrown, 

I  had  but  Heaven  to  turn  to  in  distress, 

And  Heaven  always  turn'd  away  from  me. 

But  if  I  have  offended  by  my  life, 

Oh,  let  me  make  atonement  by  my  death ! 

I  bore  the  torture  yesterday,  kind  gods, 

Bravely,  and  would  have  died  before  a  word 

Escaped  me  ;  but  my  cunning  torturers, 

Seeing  the  ensign  of  my  ally — Death — 

Advancing  swiftly,  seeing  me  still  dumb, 

Released  me,  hoping  that  another  trial 

Would  quell  me,  and  I  fear,  I  fear  it  may — 

For,  oh,  the  pain  was  horrible  !     But  yesterday 

A  sort  of  trance  was  on  me  all  the  time 

That  let  me  triumph  over  any  pain, 

And  made  me  secretly  deride  the  fools 

For  wasting  all  their  cruel  toil  in  vain. 

But  to  begin  the  agony  again  !  — 

The  burning  bricks,  the  red-hot  plates,  the  scourge — 


ARTHUR  PALMER  567 

Kind  gods,  assist  me  !  let  me  not  die  a  traitor  ! 

Take  from  me  this  weak  breath,  or  give  me  means 

To  stop  it,  so  men  may  say  when  I  am  gone : 

"  This  was  a  poor,  weak  woman,  but  no  traitor  ! " 

And  so,  perhaps,  when  poor  Epicharis 

Is  cast  away,  without  a  grave  or  name, 

Some  man  who  fears  the  gods,  and  loves  not  traitors, 

May  come  and  lay  a  penny  on  my  lips, 

That  I  may  want  not  Charon's  passage-fee, 

Nor  flit  for  ever  by  the  bank  of  Styx ' 

She  ceased  for  very  weakness,  but  her  words 

Mounted  as  high  as  heaven  from  the  stones, 

And  on  the  moment  Nero's  messengers 

(Jame  in  to  lead  her  to  the  torment-room  ; 

But  finding  that  she  could  not  stand,  they  brought 

A  litter,  and  so  bore  her  through  the  streets. 

And  thus  the  gods  granted  the  harlot's  prayer  ; 

For  in  the  litter's  roof  she  spied  a  ring, 

And  quickly  loosed  the  band  that  bound  her  waist, 

And  did  it  round  her  neck,  and  through  the  ring, 

And,  calling  up  her  torture-broken  strength, 

Crush'd  out  her  little  life— a  faithful  girl ! 

And  on  the  soldiers  bore  her  through  the  streets, 

Until  they  reach'd  the  hall  of  doom,  and  there 

Open'd  the  litter's  door,  and  she  was  gone  ; 

More  nobly  dead,  though  a  freedwoman, 

Than  many  a  Roman  swoln  with  pedigree.1 


PERCY   SOMERS   PAYNE 

SON  of  the  Rev.  Somers  Payne,  of  Upton,  County  Cork.  He 
died  in  1874,  aged  twenty-four.  He  contributed  to  Kottabos 
two  or  three  poems  marked  by  an  intensity  and  sincerity  of 
feeling,  and  a  certain  creative  power,  which  gave  promise  of 
high  distinction. 

T.  W.  R. 

1  Cf.  Juv.  SAT.  viii :  «  Tumes  alto  Drusorum  stemmate.' 


568  BOOK   VI 


REST 

SILENCE  sleeping  on  a  waste  of  ocean — 

Sun-down — westward  traileth  a  red  streak — 
One  white  sea-bird,  poised  with  scarce  a  motion, 

Challenges  the  stillness  with  a  shriek — 
Challenges  the  stillness,  upward  wheeling 

Where  some  rocky  peak  containeth  her  rude  nest  ; 
For  the  shadows  o'er  the  waters  they  come  stealing, 

And  they  whisper  to  the  silence  :  '  There  is  Rest.' 

Down  where  the  broad  Zambesi  River 

Glides  away  into  some  shadowy  lagoon 
Lies  the  antelope,  and  hears  the  leaflets  quiver, 

Shaken  by  the  sultry  breath  of  noon — 
Hears  the  sluggish  water  ripple  in  its  flowing  ; 

Feels  the  atmosphere,  with  fragrance  all  opprest  ; 
Dreams  his  dreams  ;  and  the  sweetest  is  the  knowing 

That  above  him,  and  around  him,  there  is  Rest. 

Centuries  have  faded  into  shadow, 

Earth  is  fertile  with  the  dust  of  man's  decay  ; 
Pilgrims  all  they  were  to  some  bright  El-dorado, 

But  they  wearied,  and  they  fainted,  by  the  way. 
Some  were  sick  with  the  surfeiture  of-pleasure, 

Some  were  bow'd  beneath  a  care-encumber'd  breast ; 
But  they  all  trod  in  turn  Life's  stately  measure, 

And  all  paused  betimes  to  wonder,  '  Is  there  Rest  ?' 

Look,  O  man  !  to  the  limitless  Hereafter, 

When  thy  Sense  shall  be  lifted  from  its  dust, 
When  thy  Anguish  shall  be  melted  into  Laughter, 

When  thy  Love  shall  be  sever'd  from  its  Lust. 
Then  thy  spirit  shall  be  sanctified  with  seeing 

The  Ultimate  dim  Thule  of  the  Blest, 
And  the  passion-haunted  fever  of  thy  being 

Shall  be  drifted  in  a  Universe  of  Rest. 


INDEX   TO    FIRST   LINES 


PAGE 

A  CABIN  on  the  mountain -side  hid  in  a  grassy  nook          .         .         .     489 
A  little  sun,  a  little  rain    .........     379 

A  nation's  voice,  a  nation's  voice    .         .         .         .         .         .         .124 

A  plenteous  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer          .         .         .  308 

A  poor  old  cottage  tottering  to  its  fall     .         .         .         .         .         .216 

A  spirit  speeding  down  on  All  Souls'  Eve  .          .         .         .         .     .     442 

A  star  has  gone  !  a  star  has  gone  !          ......       62 

A  terrible  and  splendid  trust      ........     467 

A  wind  that  dies  on  the  meadows  lush    .         .         .         .         .         .427 

Adieu  to  Belashanny  !  where  I  was  bred  and  born      .         .         .     .     371 

Adown  the  leafy  lane  we  two          .         .          .         .          .         .         .186 

Ah,  see  the  fair  chivalry  come,  the  companions  of  Christ     .         .     .     468 
Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that  wheel          ....       75 

All  day  in  exquisite  air  .         .         .         .          .         .         .  414 

All  hail  !  Holy  Mary,  our  hope  and  our  joy  !  .         .         .  155 

All  the  heavy  days  are  over        .         .         .         .         .         .  501 

Am  I  the  slave  they  say          ........      107 

An  old  castle  towers  o'er  the  billow  .......     209 

An'  the  thought  of  us  each  was  the  boat ;  och,  however'd  she  stand 

it  at  all 432 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping   .....       33 

As  chimes  that 'flow  o'er  shining  seas  .         .         .         .         .  335 

As  flow  the  rivers  to  the  sea  ........     491 

As  from  the  sultry  town,  oppressed    .         .          .         .         .  221 

As  I  roved  out,  at  Faha,  one  morning    .         .         .         .         .         .16 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track       .         .         .         .         .         .     .       48 

At  early  dawn  I  once  had  been       .......      102 

At  night  what  things  will  stalk  abroad        .         .         .         .         .     .     417 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly  .         .         .       45 
Away  from  the  town,  in  the  safe  retreat      .         .         .         .         .     .     448 

BARD  !  to  no  brave  chief  belonging         ......       63 


570  INDEX    TO  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

Behold  the  world's  great  wonder        .         .         .         .         .  60 

Beloved,  do  you  pity  not  my  doleful  case         .         .         .         .         .103 

Beloved,  gaze  in  thine  own  heart       .......  502 

Beyond,  beyond  the  mountain  line                                       . -f  526 

Bring  from  the  craggy  haunts  of  birch  and  pine  .....  357 

But  the  rain  is  gone  by,  and  the  day's  dying  out  in  a  splend  nir         .  417 

Buttercups  and  daisies  in  the  meadow         .                   .         .         .  363 

By  memory  inspired       .          .        '.          .  •       .          .          .          .          .  21 

By  the  foot  of  old  Keeper,  beside  the  bohreen     .         .         .  189 

By  the  shore  a  plot  of  ground          .         .         .         .         .         .         .  374 

CAN  the  depths  of  the  ocean  afford  you  not  graves      .         .         .     .  146 

Cead  mile  failte  !  child  of  the  Ithian       .         .    .      .                   .         .  87 

Cean  duv  deelish,  beside  the  sea        .         .         .         .         .         .     .  440 

Child  in  thy  beauty  ;  empress  in  thy  pride       ...        .          .-         .  565 

Chill  the  winter,  cold  the  wind           .                   .         .         .         .     .  340 

Come  !   pledge  again  thy  heart  and  hand         .          .          .          .          .126 

Come,  tell  me,  dearest  mother,  what  makes  my  father  stay          .     .  3 

Count  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave   .                    .          .          .  322 

Crom  Cruach  and  his  sub-gods  twelve         .         ...         .  299 

DARK  angel,  with  thine  aching  lust         .         .         .         .         .         .  469 

Dead  heat  and  windless  air        .         .         .         .         .         .          .     .  415 

Dear  maiden,  when  the  sun  is  down       ...         .         .         .184 

Deep  in  Canadian  woods  we've  met  .......  236 

'  Did  they  dare — did  they  dare,  to  slay  Owen  Roe  O'Neill  ?  '  .         .  120 

Did  ye  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone     .         »    -      •         .         .         .     .  71 

Do  you  remember,  long  ago  .         .        V  ~     '•         •         •         •         .  152 

Dry  be  that  tear,  my  gentlest  love      .'         ...         •         .         .     .  31 
EACH  nation  master  at  its  own  fireside   .         .         .         .         .        -515 

FAIR  our  fleet  at  Castle  Sweyn .        :..       *      > .-        .         .         .     .  341 

Far  are  the  Gaelic  tribes  and  wide           .         »'     '    .         .         .         .  163 

Far  from  the  churchyard  dig  his  grave        .         ...         .         .     .  368 

Far  out  beyond  our  sheltered  bay   .         .        -.         .         .         .         .  234 

Farewell  !  the  doom  is  spoken,     All  is  o'er         .  333 
Fled  foam   underneath   us  and    round  us,  a  wandering  and  milky 

smoke        .         .                   .         .         .         .....  503 

For  many  a  mile  the  tawny  mountains  heaved     .....  538 

From  a  Munster  vale  they  brought  her  .    ~  ...  .-      ....  147 

From  the  ocean  half  a  rood        .         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  516 

From  what  dripping  cell,  through  what  fairy  glen    ....  191 

GET  up,  our  Anna  dear    from  the  weary  spinning-wheel      .         .     .  305 

Gile  Machree 85 

Girl  of  the  red  mouth        ;         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  144 


INDEX   TO  FIRST  LINES  571 

PAGE 

Go  not  to  the  hills  of  Erin      ........  440 

Good  men  and  true  !  in  this  house  who  dwell     .         .         .         .     .  139 

Great  fabric  of  oppression       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  131 

Great  woods  gird  me  now  around       .......  336 

HAD  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed         ....  31 

Hail  to  our  Keltic  brethren,  wherever  they  may  be               .         .     .  168 

Have  you  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  you  my  true-love  there      .          .  101 

Have  you  e'er  a  new  song          ........  389 

He  came  across  the  meadow-pass   .         .         .         .         .         .         .129 

He  grasped  his  ponderous  hammer  ;  he  could  not  stand  it  more  .     .  210 

He  planted  an  oak  in  his  father's  park    .         .         .         .         .          •  559 

He  said  that  he  was  not  our  brother  .          .         .         .         .         .     .  108 

Heard'st  thou  over  the  Fortress  wild  geese  flying  and  crying  ?           .  368 

Heed  her  not,  O  Cuhoolin,  husband  mine           .         .         .         .     .  477 

Here  are  the  needs  of  manhood  satisfied  !.....  528 

His  locks  are  whitened  with  the  snows  of  nigh  a  hundred  years  .     .  202 
Honey-sweet,  sweet  as  honey  smell  the  lilies  .          .         .         .         .415 

How  hard  is  my  fortune    .........  96 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes        .         .         .          ...  47 

How  sweetly  keen,  how  stirred  the  air  ! 556 

Hush  !  hear  you  how  the  night  wind  keens  around  the  craggy  reek  .  179 

AM  desolate  ...........  344 

am  Ethell,  the  son  of  Conn          .         .         .         .  .         .315 

am  the  breath  of  Tethra,  voice  of  Tethra          .         .  •'.'    .         .     .  481 

am  the  Death  who  am  come  to  you      .         ,         .        v        .  "     .  458 

am  the  tender  voice  calling  '  Away '         .         .        ...     ,  .         .     .  487 

'm  sittin' on  the  stile,  Mary.         .         ...         .         >         .         .  226 

'm  very  happy  where  I  am       .                   .                   .         .         .     .  232 

give  my  heart  to  thee,  O  mother-land  .                   .         .         .         .  484 

go  to  knit  two  clans  together  .         .     "•    .         •         .         .         .     .  320 

groan  as  I  put  out       .         .         .         .         .     •   .         ...         .  416 

had  a  chair  at  every  hearth      .         .  •       .         .         .         .         .  502 

hear  a  distant  clarion  blare  .         .....         .         .  532 

know  what  will  happen,  sweet         .......  235 

know  who  won  the  peace  of  God          .         .         .         .         .         .  347 

said  my  pleasure  shall  not  move       .......  490 

saw  the  Master  of  the  Sun.     He  stood          .....  314 

see  black  dragons  mount  the  sky     ,         .         .         .         .          .  273 

see  thee  ever  in  my  dreams          .  •       .         .         .         .         .          .  264 

sit  beside  my  darling's  grave  ..         .         .         .         .         ..215 

walked  entranced        .         .         .         «         .         .         .         .         .  252 

walked  through  Ballinderry  in  the  spring-time          .         .         .     .  308 


572  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 


I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree   .....  500 

I  would  I  were  on  yonder  hill  .         .         .         .         .          .         .     .  14 

I'd  rock  my  own  sweet  childie  to  rest  in  a  cradle  of  gold  on  a  bough 

of  the  willow      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  393 

If  I  had  thought  thou  could'st  have  died     .         .                   .         •     •  55 
If  sadly  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking      .         .         .          .         .          -3° 

If  you  searched  the  county  o'  Carlow,  ay,  and  back  again  .         .     .  405 

'If  you  would  like  to  see  the  height  of  hospitality      ....  398 

Image  of  beauty,  when  I  gaze  on  thee        .         .         .         .         .     .  489 

Imageries  of  dreams  reveal  a  gracious  age        .         .         .         .         .  471 

In  a  grey  cave,  where  comes  no  glimpse  of  sky  .         .         .         .     .  418 

In  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses  .         .         .         .         .         .460 

In  Siberia's  wastes    .         .         .         .'      '  .       •  .         .         .         .     .  268 

In  the  valley  of  Shanganagh,  where  the  songs  of  skylarks  teem         .  564 

In  the  wet  dusk  silver  sweet       .         .         .       ,.         .         .         .     .  491 

Inside  its  zigzag  lines  the  little  camp  is  asleep          .         .         .         •  551 

Inside  the  city's  throbbing  heart         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  426 

Is  it  thus,  O  Shane  the  haughty  !  Shane  the  valiant  !  that  we  meet.  182 

Is  there  one  desires  to  hear        .         .         .       ~.       '  ..         .         .     .  479 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand      .         .         .         .      ^  .         .         .          .  61 

It  rose  upon  the  sordid  street     .         ••".••         •  .       -         •         .     .  229 

It  was  long  past  the  noon  when  I  pushed  back  my  chair           .         .  542 

It  was  on  the  Mount  Cithseron,  in  the  pale  and  misty  morn         .     .  548 

It  was  the  fairy  of  the  place   .         .         ,         .         .         .         .         .  490 

Italian  lakes,  transparent  blue   .          .          ......          .          •          .     .  554 

JIST  after  the  war,  in  the  year  'Ninety-eight             ....  193 

Joy  !  joy  !  the  day  is  come  at  last,  the  day  of  hope  and  pride  .  .  135 
July  the  First,  of  a  morning  clear,  one  thousand  six  hundred  and 

ninety        .          .          .         .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .19 

LATE  at  morning's  prime  I  roved       .         .         »         .         .         .     .  57 

Let  all  the  fish  that  swim  the  sea   .         .      .  ."        ;         .         .         .  396 

Let  the  farmer  praise  his  grounds       .         .         .•        ,-        .         .     .  13 
Let  them  go  by — the  heats,  the  doubts,  the  strife    .         .         .         -S31 

Like  a  great  burst  of  singing  came  the  day          .         .                   .     .  352 

Little  child,  I  call  thee  fair    .         .-.''.         .         .         .         .  457 

Lone  lake,  half  lost  amidst  encircling  hills           .         .         .         .  553 

Long  they  pine  in  weary  woe — the  nobles  of  our  land      .         .          .261 

Low  lie  your  heads  this  day       .         „       ' . "       .     „         .         .     .  353 
MAN  is  no  mushroom  growth  of  yesterday       .         .         .         .         .514 

Me  hither  from  moonlight          .       \.         .  x      .         .         .         .     .  276 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning'  .....  74 

Mid  dewy  pastures  girdled  with  blue  air  .  .  .  »  .  .  408 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES  573 


PAGE 

Moans  the  bay 338 

Mother,  is  that  the  passing  bell  ?        .          .         .         .         .         .     .  1 57 

Motionless,  in  a  dark,  cold  cell  in  Rome          .....  566 

Music  as  of  the  winds  when  they  awake      .          .    '               .         .  35^ 

'  My  birthday  ! '  what  a  different  sound  ......  49 

My  eyes  are  filmed,  my  beard  is  grey          .         .         .         .         .  266 

My  grief  on  the  sea        .........  457 

My  heart  is  far  from  Liffey's  tide        .         .         .         .         .         .     .  99 

My  love,  still  I  think  that  I  see  her  once  more        ...          -32 

My  love  to  fight  the  Saxon  goes          .         .         .         .         .         .     .  217 

My  name  it  is  Hugh  Reynolds,  I  come  of  honest  parents          .          .  5 

My  spirit's  on  the  mountains,  where  the  birds     .         .         .         .     .  54 

NIGHT  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way       .....  45 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers  .          .         .         .         .     .  49 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note        .         .         .         .         -53 

Not  beauty  which  men  gaze  on  with  a  smile        .         .         .         .     .  511 

Not  every  thought  can  find  its  words       .         .         .         .         .          -558 

Not  far  from  old  Kinvara,  in  the  merry  month  or  May         .         .     .  400 

Now  let  me  alone,  though  I  know  you  won't  .....  67 

Now  Memory,  false,  spendthrift  Memory  .         .         .         .         .  483 

Now  welcome,  welcome,  baby-boy  unto  a  mother's  fears          .         .  109 

Now  when  the  giant  in  us  wakes  and  broods       .....  488 

O  MOTHER,  mother,  I  swept  the  hearth,  I  set  his  chair  and  the  white 

board  spread          .         .         ...         .         .         .         .         .  443 

O  my  daughter  !  lead  me  forth  to  the  bastion  on  the  north      .         .  520 

O  Sigh  of  the  sea,  O  soft  lone-wandering  sound           .         .          .     .  334 

O  thou  whom  sacred  duty  hither  calls      .         .         .         .         .         .170 

O  Unknown  Bclov'd  One  !  to  the  perfect  season          .         .          .     .  375 

O  Woman  of  the  Piercing  Wail       .......  254 

O  woman  of  Three  Cows,  agra!  don't  let  your  tongue  thus  rattle  !  .  262 

Of  priests  we  can  offer  a  charmin'  variety         .....  394 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night         .........  46 

Oh  !  drimin  donn  dilis  \  the  landlord  has  come        .         .         .         .185 

Oh  !  fairer  than  the  lily  tall,  and  sweeter  than  the  rose    .         .         .  399 

Oh,  how  she  plough'd  the  ocean,  the  good  ship  Cos  le  Down       .     .  140 

Oh  !  in  the  quiet  haven,  safe  for  aye 518 

Oh,  Larry  M'Hale  he  had  little  to  fear 70 

Oh,  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen  ....  98 

Oh  !  my  dark  Rosaleen      .........  250 

Oh,  Paddy  dear  !  an'  did  ye  hear  the  news  that's  goin'  round  .         .  2 

Oh  !  rise  up,  Willy  Reilly,  and  come  along  with  me  .         .         .     .  6 

Oh  !  the  French  are  on  the  sea 22 


574  INDEX   TO  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Oh,  then,  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall 212 

Oh,  up  the  brae,  and  up  and  up,  beyont  the  fairy  thorn  .          .          .     446 
Oh  !  who  is  that  poor  foreigner  that  lately  came  to  town     .          .  15 

Old  Church,  thou  still  art  Catholic — e'en  dream  they  as  they  may    .      153 
On  Carrigdhoun  the  heath  is  brown    .         .         .         .         .  153 

On  Euripides'  plays  we  debated      .         .         .         .          .         .         '532 

On  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in  woeful  plight .         .     .      105 
Once  more,  through  God's  high  will  and  grace         .          .          .          -323 
One  touch  there  is  of  magic  white       .         .         .         .         .         .     .      518 

Over  here  in  England  I'm  helpin'  wi'  the  hay.         .         .         .         .451 

Over  hills  and  uplands  high        .         .         .    .;  .         .         .         .     .       60 

O'er  Provence  breathing,  nimble  air  .    „          .          .          .     546 

Over  the  dim  blue  hills      .         .         .         .         .         .         .          .     .     213 

PHYLLIS  and  Damon  met  one  day  .         .         .         .         .         .     475 

Prince  Baile  of  Ulster  rode  out  in  the  morn         .  .          .  376 

Proud  of  you,  fond  of  you,  clinging  so  near  to  you  .          .          .          .149 

RAISE  the  Cromlech  high  ! .      .     461 

Righ  Shemus  he  has  gone  to  France  and  left  his  crown  behind          .      137 
Ringleted  youth  of  my  love        .         „•'.'.       '.         .         .     .     456 

River  of  billows,  to  whose  mighty  heart  .         »         .          .          .512 

Roll  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river  .          .  .     .     271 

Rose  o'  the  World,  she  came  to  my  bed  .         .         .         .         .     474 

Royal  and  saintly  Cashel  !  I  would  gaze     .        V        .         .  512 

SAD  is  yonder  blackbird's  song        .......     336 

Sadly  the  dead  leaves  rustle  in  the  whistling  wind       .         .         .     .     470 

Seek  music  in  the  wolf's  fierce  howl        .         .         .         .         .         .180 

Shall  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory,  O  my  country        .  .          .          .  238 

She  casts  a  spell — oh  !  casts  a  spell      ....         .         .         .     454 

She  lived  beside  the  Anner         .         .         •         •         .          .         .     .     205 

Show  me  a  sight    .         .         .         1        ..         »    .     .         .         .         .     392 

Silence  sleeping  on  a  waste  of  ocean  .         «./->.         .         .         .  568 

Silent  as  thou,  whose  inner  life  is  gone    .         .         ,         .         .         .     224 
Silent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water  .         .         .         .         .     .       43 

So  he  trassed  away  dreamin'  of  Nora  na  Mo    .....     385 

So  Kings  and  Chiefs  and  Bards,  in  Eman  of  the  Kings         .          .     .     358 
So,  my  Kathleen,  you're  going  to  leave  me      .....     228 

Solomon  !  where  is  thy  throne  ?     It  is  gone  in  the  wind      .          .     .     274 
Some  laws  there  are  too  sacred  for  the  hand    .          .         .         .         .511 

Stern  granite  Gate  of  Wicklow,  with  what  awe  .  ...     538 

Sure,  he's  five  months,  an'  he's  two  foot  long  .....     452 

Surely  a  Voice  hath  called  her  to  the  deep          .         .         .         •     •     556 
Sweet  is  a  voice  in  the  land  of  gold 339 


INDEX   TO  fIRST  LINES  575 

PAGE 

TAKE,  proud  Ambition,  take  thy  fill 83 

That  rake  up  near  the  rafters      ........  200 

The  bride  she  bound  her  golden  hair       ......  77 

The  colour  gladdens  all  your  heart     .         .         .         .         .  475 

The  dismal  yew  and  cypress  tall      .......  89 

The  gloom  of  the  sea-fronting  cliffs    .         .         .         .         .  530 

The, host  is  riding  from  Knocknarea        .         .         .         .         .          .  498 

The  little  Black  Rose  shall  be  red  at  last 329 

The  long,  long  wished-for  hour  has  come         .         .         .         .  175 

The  night  before  Larry  was  stretched          ......  8 

The  Princess  with  her  women-train  without  the  fort  he  found  .          .  290 

The  silent  bird  is  hid  in  the  boughs   .......  407 

The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's  hundred  isles        .          .  121 

The  sun  on  Ivera      ..........  94 

The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  you,  Mick       ......  403 

The  waters— O  the  waters  !— wild  and  glooming         .         .         .     .  512 

The  work  that  should  to-day  be  wrought         .         .         .          .          .127 

Then  Oberon  spake  the  word  of  might        ......  435 

There  are  veils  that  lift,  there  are  bars  that  fall         ....  462 

There  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra .         .          .         .     .  97 

There's  no  one  on  the  long  white  road    ......  523 

There  our  murdered  brother  lies         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  27 

They  heaved  the  stone  ;  they  heaped  the  cairn         ....  303 

This  wolf  for  many  a  day  ..........  422 

Those  delicate  wanderers        ........  487 

Thou  golden  sunshine  in  the  peaceful  day  !          .         .                   .     .  346 

Through  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheered  my  way   .  44 

Thus  sang  the  sages  of  the  Gael          .......  348 

'Tis  I  go  fiddling,  fiddling      .         .         ..                  .         .         .          .  473 

'Tis  pretty  to  see  the  girl  of  Dunbwy           .         .         .         .         .     .  123 

To  Rathlin's  isle  I  chanced  to  sail ....          ...  56 

'Twas  a  balmy  summer  morning         .......  260 

'Twas  beyond  at  Macreddin,  at  Owen  Doyle's  weddin'     .         .          .  406 

'Twas  but  last  night  I  traversed  the  Atlantic's  furrowM    ;i  <.•          .     .  166 

'Twas  in  green-leafy  springtime      .......  401 

UP  the  airy  mountain         .........  370 

Up  the  sea-saddened  valley,  at  evening's  decline     .         .         .         .321 

WATHERS  o'  MOYLE  an'  the  white  gulls  flyin'    .....  453 

We  hate  the  Saxon  and  the  Dane 118 

Weary  men,  what  reap  ye  ?  -  «  Golden  corn  for  the  stranger  '        .     .  177 
Were  you  ever  in  sweet  Tipperary,  where  the  fields  are  so  sunny  and 

154 


576  INDEX   TO   FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

What  ails  you  that  you  look  so  pale    .         .          .         .         ...  444 

What  is  it  that  is  gone  we  fancied  ours  ?          .         .         .         .          .  367 

What  rights  the  brave  ?      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  159 

What  shall  become  of  the  ancient  race    .         .         .         .         .         .161 

When  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood        .          .         .  25 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name       ....  45 

When  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow           .         .'         .          .         .     .  322 

When,  like  the  early  rose       .          ../.'.          .          .          .  90 

When  my  arms  wrap  you  round,  I  press    ...          '.         ...  499 

When  through  life  unblest  we  rove           ......          .          .  47 

When  you  are  old  and  grey  and  full  of  sleep       -.;'       .-         .  501 

Where  is  my  Chief,  my  Master,  this  bleak  night,  mavro'ie  \      .          .  269 

Where  is  thy  lovely  perilous  abode  ?            .         *                   .          .     .  463 

Where  Sugarloaf  with  bare  and  ruinous  wedge         .                   .         .  553 

Where  the  huge  Atlantic  swings  heavy  water  eastward         .         .     .  447 
While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy         .          .         .          .          .          .10 

White  bird  of  the  tempest  !  O  beautiful  thing  !  .          .         .         .     .  88 

Who  dreamed  that  beauty  passes  like  a  dream          ....  500 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ?          .,'      .         .         .         .     .  142 

Who  passes  down  the  wintry  street        '  ..        .         .         .         .          .414 

Who  rideth  thro'  the  driving  rain        .          .          .         .         .          .     .  465 

Who  took  me  from  my  mother's  arms     .          .          .                              .  28 

Why  is  his  name  unsung,  O  minstrel  host  ?          .         .         .     N   .     .  167 
Why  sitt'st  thou  by  the  shore           .         .          .         .         .         .         .562 

Widow  Machree,  it's  no  wonder  you  frown         .         .         .         .     .  65 

Wirra,  wirra !  ologone  !          .         ..        .         .         .         .     '    .         .  395 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection          '.         .      ...         .          .     .  73 

With  heaving  breast  the  fair-haired  Eileen  sang        .         .         .         .  533 

Within  the  dim  museum  room    .         .     .    .         i         .         .          .  222 

Within  the  letter's  rustling  fold        .         .         .^  '     .         .         .          .172 

Within  the  window  of  this  white         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  219 

YES,  Gertrude,  I  remember  well     .         ....         .         .  206 

Yes,  let  us  speak,  with  lips  confirming        .         .         .         .         .     .  480 

Yes!  mourn  the  soul,  of  high  and  pure  intent          ....  514 

Yes,  this  is  Wicklow  ;  round  our  feet      '.„....        .         .     .  539 

Yon  old  house  in  moonlight  sleeping       .                            .         .         .  563 

You  lads  that  are  funny,  and  call  maids  your  honey    .         .         .  18 

You  were  always  a  dreamer,  Rose — red  Rose           ....  442 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  bawn       .         .         .         .     .  68 

Your  proud  eyes  give  me  their  wearied  splendour    .         .          .  551 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS 


'A.  E.'        .         ,        .        . 

Alexander,  C.  F. 
Alexander,  William       .      -  . 
Allingham,  W.      . 
An  Chraobhin  Aoibhinn  (see 

Hyde) 
Anonymous,  2,  3,  4,  6,  8,  1 

14,  15,   16,   ;8,  19,  21,  22,  33, 

179,  229 

Armstrong,  E.  J. 
Armstrong,  G.  P\  S. 

BANIM,  JOHN 
Barlow,  Jane 
Barry,  M.  J. 
Boucicault,  D.  . 

Boyd,  T.      . 
Brooke,  Stopford  A. 

CALLANAN,  J.  J.          . 
Carleton,  W. 
Casey,  J.  K.          .         . 
Coleman,  P    J.      .         • 
Conolly,  L.  Aylmer 
Curran,  J.  P. 

DARLEY,  GEO.     . 
Davis,  Thomas     .         •  . 
De  Vere,  Sir  Aubrey     . 
De  Vere,  Aubrey 
Doheny,  M. 
Dowden,  E  . 
Downing,  Ellen  M.  P. 
Drennan,  William 
Dufferin,  Countess  of    . 
Duffy,  Sir  C.  Gavan      . 


PAGE 

4*5 

FAHY,  F.  A. 

PAGE 

39* 

519 

Ferguson,  Sir  S.  . 

276 

5i5 

Fox,  George 

104 

364 

Frazer,  J.  de  J. 

I25 

Furlong,  Alice 

427 

),    12, 

GEOGHEGAN,  A.  G. 

J5i 

»  33. 

Gifford,  the  Countess  of  (see 

Dufferin) 

531 

Gilbert,  Lady 

407 

534 

Graves,  A.  P. 

380 

Greene,  Geo.  A.  . 

552 

1  06 

Griffin,  Gerald      . 

84 

428 

Gwynn,  S.  L. 

446 

158 

Gyles,  Althea 

475 

232 

463 

HINKSON,  K.  TYNAN- 

409 

376 

Hopper,  Nora 

47i 

Hyde,  Douglas     . 

454 

92 

76 

INGRAM,  J.  K.     .        .      142, 

513 

211 

Irwin,  T.  C.          . 

218 

403 

56 

JOHNSON,  LIONEL 

465 

30 

Johnson,  W.  Knox 

556 

Joyce,  R.  D. 

208 

58 

1x6 

KAVANAGH,  ROSE 

425 

509 

Keegan,  John 

!55 

3" 

Kelly,  Mary 

1S1 

175 

Kickham,  C.  J.     . 

199 

527 

• 

149 

LANE,  DENNY     . 

*52 

25 

Larminie,  W. 

476 

226 

Lecky,  W.  E.  H. 

558 

133 

Le  Fanu,  J.  S.      . 

187 

P  P 


578 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


PAGE 

PAGE 

'  Leo  '  (  see  Casey) 

Payne,  P.  S. 

567 

Lever,  Chas.  J.     . 

69 

Power,  Marguerite  A.   . 

57 

Lover,  S. 

64 

Prout,  Father 

72 

MACALEESE,  D.    . 

1  86 

REYNOLDS,  G.  N. 

32 

McBurney,  W.  B. 

139 

Rolleston,  T.  W.  . 

460 

McCall,  P.  T- 

404 

Russell,  G.  W.  (see  <  A.  E.') 

McCarroll,  J. 

1  80 

Ryan,  Malachy     . 

401 

McCarthy,  D.  F. 

169 

MacDerrnott,  M.  . 

144 

SAVAGE,  JOHN     . 

181 

McGee,  T.  D'Arcy 

162 

Sheridan,  R.  B.    . 

30 

Mahony,     Francis      S.      (see 

Shorter,    Mrs.   (see  Sigerson, 

Prout) 

Dora) 

Malone,  Carroll  (se*  McBur- 

Sigerson, Dora 

437 

ney) 

Sigerson,  George  . 

330 

Mangan,  J.  C.      .         .     ."    . 

241 

Stokes,  Whitley    . 

345 

Martley,  John 

564 

Sullivan^  T.  D.     . 

233 

Moore,  Thomas    . 

34 

Mul  hoi  land,    Rosa    (see    Gil- 

TODHUNTER, JOHN 

350 

bert) 

Tormey,  M. 

160 

Mulvany,  C.  P.     . 

561 

WALLER,  JOHN  F. 

74 

O'DOHERTY,  Mrs.  (see  Kelly) 

Walsh,  Edward    . 

99 

O'Donnell,  J.  F.  . 

217 

Walsh,  John 

184 

O'Grady,  S.  J.       .          .         . 
O'Hagan,  John     .         .         . 

482 
127 

Wilde,  Lady         .         ..        : 
Wilkins,  W. 

176 

547 

O'Leary,  Ellen      . 

214 

Williams,  R.  Dalton     . 

145 

'  O'Neill,  Moira  '           .     -   .. 

45  1 

Wolfe,  Charles      . 

5i 

Wynne,  Frances  . 

448 

PALMER,  A.      ''    .     .  . 

565 

Parnell,  Fanny     . 

238 

YEATS,  W.  B.     .  . 

492 

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